Panic
by washedupseaweed
Summary: A young woman is admitted to Arkham Asylum suffering from severe panic disorder. She is treated by one Jonathan Crane - but what will happen when she is introduced to the Scarecrow? No romance.
1. Chapter 1

When this young woman - a girl, really - was dumped into his examining room, Dr. Jonathan Crane thought at first that the asylum staff had made a mistake. She seemed to be around sixteen or seventeen, too young to be admitted under most normal circumstances. Wide blue-grey eyes stared back at the doctor as he settled at his desk and pulled her file from a stack of several.

"What is your name, miss?" he asked in a cool voice. Immediately, her reaction was one of fear, shrinking back into the chair and bringing her legs up in front of her.

"I-it's, uh, it's Kit - no, it's Kathryn," she amended quickly.

"Which one is it?" he inquired. Was the slip due to confusion or some sort of dissociative identity issue?

"I usually go by Kit, it's been m-my nickname since I was born, but my real name is, uh, Kathryn," she stammered, shaking her head as if tossing away a bug. Her hand flew up to brush blonde bangs out of her eyes, and Crane noted that she was thin - not unhealthily so, but slender enough to cause a bit of worry.

"What brings you here today?" It was sure to be interesting, he mused, for most patients so young almost always had intriguing reasons to be brought before him.

"Y-you already know that, you don't need me to tell you. It's in that … that little file you have about me," she answered. By that time, her eyes had begun to flash from side to side, and her breathing was sped up audibly. He opened the file and cast a cursory glance downwards. After one look, he had to sit down and read the entire thing from top to bottom.

Her name was Kathryn Winner. Age 14 (he'd guessed a fair bit higher, for some reason). Admitted after several severe panic attacks in the span of a week, following several months of general anxiety. Never been medicated. Also suffering from moderate OCD. So she had anxiety issues - well, that was obvious from taking one glance at her. This case was the most severe he had needed to treat in his years at Arkham, though.

"How tall are you, and how much do you weigh?" he inquired. It hadn't yet been added to her file, and she was worried she might also be suffering from anorexia.

"I'm, uh, 5'8", maybe 5'9". Last time I was weighed, I think I was 125 pounds. I'm too skinny, I know, but I can't help it. I'm sorry," she murmured, ducking her head. "They told me that it was okay, but all my … my friends told me that I was too skinny. I'm sorry," she repeated. He wondered who they were, whether they were doctors or some stranger entities.

"You don't need to apologize," he replied. Being comforting seemed to be the best option for the moment, or he might prompt another panic attack. Fortunately, there were several benzodiazepines stored in the top drawer of his desk, so if the worst did occur, he was prepared.

"I'm sorry." Her fingers tapped on the arm of the chair in a rapid but even tattoo.

"When did you first start experiencing anxiety?" he inquired. The onset appeared to be rapid according to her chart, but he wanted to know her opinion.

"It was … it was about a year ago. I don't sleep, I can't - can't - can't go anywhere. I was in school the first time, now my - uh, my mom home-schools me. One time I was in the principal's office, one time in - uh, in the doctor's office. Dad thought I was making a ... big deal out of - of nothing, but he didn't understand," she muttered. Twitching fingers ran through her short, shaggy hair once, twice, three times, before she tangled them together atop her knees. Her anxiety was evidently growing.

"You have to - to help me. I have to get home! It's not safe here!" Unsteadily, she rose to her feet and stumbled toward the door, one hand clutched at her throat.

"Please sit down, Miss Kathryn," he ordered calmly. She scratched at the wood grain and grasped at the knob; it had been locked when she arrived.

"No! No, I won't," she gasped. Suddenly the young woman was curled into a ball on the floor, rocking and moaning.

"My stomach hurts. I can't breathe," she whispered. Crane discreetly shuffled over to his desk and pulled out a sterile syringe of diazepam, pulling it out of its wrapper. He was soon at her side, his hand on her arm. The needle slid in smoothly, and the fluid within flowed into her veins.

"What are you doing? Stop it, stop it," Kathryn shouted. Her fingers dug into her own legs until the diazepam took effect. Gradually, her breathing slowed and muscles unclenched.

"Are you alright now, Kathryn?" he inquired with a clinically curious look in his eye.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated under her breath over and over. The girl felt a compulsive need to apologize - possibly due to some event in her past or issue in her earlier years. Unsure of what else to do, he helped her stand up and get back into her chair. All the while, she kept apologizing quietly.

"Are you willing to talk more, or would you like to go back to your room?" he asked.

"You have to help me. I know you can," she begged. "I can't live like this any more." That could mean she was considering suicide; he'd have her placed on watch as soon as the appointment was over.

"How do you normally deal with these attacks?" Her response was critical to how he would begin developing a psychopharmacological treatment for her.

"I sit on my bed, with my blanket wrapped around me. I tap out rhythms on the mattress to distract myself, until I can breathe again. It takes a long time," she mumbled, sounding quite defeated.

"I can give you medication to help prevent your attacks, or something to take when you start them," Crane told her with a minute false smile. Her head snapped up, and her gaze was filled with feral wonder.

"My parents told me that there was nothing they could do. That's why they sent me here. Are you … you're not kidding? You can help me?" she whispered. He nodded, pulling off his glasses for a moment.

"The medications can be addictive, but I think they would really help you," he said, staring intently at her.

"Anything. Anything that might help," she affirmed. Her posture was much more relaxed than before, slumped like a normal teenager. Crane noted, however, that her fingers continued to twitch slightly as she sat like an old woman in the chair.

"How often do you normally have panic attacks?" he asked, grabbing a pad and writing down her previous answers while she considered.

"About once a week usually, but last week I had six and then one today so that's seven and hopefully I won't have another, but I might not come back here, I'll have another one if I come back here. I'll have another attack and then I'll get in trouble, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" she trailed off, sucking in a lungful of air.

"It's alright, Kathryn. You won't get in trouble here. Just calm down," he suggested with what seemed to be a tinge of humor.

"Calm? I haven't been calm in a year. I can't stop worrying." She chuckled mirthlessly.

"I'm going to start you on seroxat. It's a popular choice for people like you, who have panic disorder. I will warn you now that there are several side effects. If you notice anything, please let me know," he explained, smiling. The girl didn't smile back; she merely tilted her head to one side and blinked furiously. An awkward silence filled the room as she ran her fingers through her hair once, twice, three times, just like she had earlier. It seemed to be a compulsive behavior of hers. He would watch her carefully to see what other compulsions she had, if any. Finally, he looked at his watch and realized their session was almost over.

"Are you ready to go back to your room?" he queried. She nodded slowly and stood up on shaky legs. While she got up, Crane grabbed a phone from his desk and dialed an escort for her.

"You'll have your first dose of medication tonight with your meal. How does that sound?" His fingers interlaced at his waist. Kathryn nodded again as a man in a pair of blue scrubs came in to bring her back to her room.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said with a wave. The girl was escorted from his office, and he settled wearily at his dark-stained desk. Seroxat wasn't usually recommended for teenagers - in fact, it was counter-indicated. But he couldn't think of a medication that would better solve her problems, and Arkham had so many suicidal patients that they had an expert suicide watch program. She would be taken care of until they were able to solve her problems. The seroxat would help with both the panic disorder and the OCD, if the side effects weren't too severe. He knew that there were many risks, but this wasn't the most normal case - for him, anyways. Crane was used to dealing with schizophrenics, psychotics, and the like, but not many patients with anxiety disorders were admitted to Arkham.

The next day, she would have taken two doses of the seroxat, and he would be able to see any effects as they began to develop. In fact, she might even begin to notice effects that evening before she went to sleep. With that thought in his head, he called down and said he was ready for his next patient.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Forgot an author's note on the last chapter and I'm too lazy to add one. This is just a story I got inspiration for while browsing the Crane fan fictions posted around here. I don't own anything in the DC universe or the Nolanverse, blah de blah. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Scarecrow WILL be showing up, just not quite yet. Read and review! Or just read and enjoy. Either way is fine. Oh, and I know it's weird that Crane gave her a medication contraindicated for teens, but he's never been one for following regulations anyways. Oh, and anyone with experience in the field of psychopharmacology (as if you'd stumble on one of those in FF-land XD) is it absurd to have these side effects set in so quickly?**

Kathryn stumbled into his office at around noon the next day, eyes bleary, hands shaking. When he gestured toward the chair, she shook her head fervently.

"I don't know what you did, but I couldn't sleep at all last night. I had to - couldn't lie down. I'm tired. Couldn't sleep. Tired," she divulged in an exhausted voice. As she spoke, her feet kept bouncing up and down. It looked like she was still suffering from anxiety.

"Will you sit down for just a few minutes?" he asked her, standing up and leading her toward the chair. She shook her head and tried to get away. Crane pinned her to the chair with long fingers. Once she realized she was trapped, her head fell.

"Explain what's wrong, as precisely as you can," he requested. Her head tossed from side to side as her knees twitched.

"I took that pill they gave me - seroxat, whatever it is, I don't care - and by the time I wanted to go t-to sleep, I couldn't sit still. Every time I tried to lie down, I had to twitch my legs, then I had to stand up and pace around. It hurts when I don't. It makes everything feel all … tight. I don't know. There are little things under my skin. My head aches. I need to move. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't get me in trouble. My insides hurt," she moaned, finally breaking free and springing up to begin pacing around the room at a rapid clip. A loud sigh of relief filled the room.

"What do you mean, your insides hurt?" he asked urgently. Was she physically ill, or was it merely a symptom of anxiety?

"I sit down and everything starts to hurt. It's like someone is … like something is, uh, crawling around in there. It hurts, it hurts," she whined, pawing at her stomach like a cat. As she paced, her hand brushed along the wall, fingers tapping. Her symptoms didn't describe any effect he was familiar with, nor any illness he knew of.

"Yet you say it feels better when you move?" That didn't make any sense to Jonathan.

"A little bit, y-yeah. At least I can think when I move. But can't you do something? You made everything worse! Oh, oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to … I'm sorry," she muttered, throwing her hands over her head. Her motion continued even though she was currently unable to see. When she smacked into the second wall, Crane put his hands on her shoulders.

She struggled beneath him, still shielding her face. "Kathryn, we - _I _can help you. But you have to be patient. We'll wait a week or so to see if the symptoms go away; meanwhile, you'll stay on the dose you're currently prescribed of seroxat. Is that okay?" Crane gently tried to pry apart her arms as he spoke, but they kept snapping shut.

Her elbows fluttered back and forth as she shook her head madly. "Please, you have to make it better. You told me you would help me. You t-told me you would help me - you're the first. No one else believed me. They thought I was making - faking it. But now there's things crawling inside of me. Tiny little bug-things and I need to move around or they make my head hurt and you didn't tell me about that and I'm tired and I'm exhausted but I can't sleep and my stomach feels funny like I'm having an attack but you said that medicine you put me on would help make everything go away but it didn't and the little things are still there and my head - I'm sorry," she whispered, her feet shooting off the ground as if it had been covered in magma. Though he was getting frustrated, Crane couldn't help but appreciate this girl for being dropped off and giving him a very interesting case to study. He wrote the symptoms down on a large pad of legal paper. When her arms were released, she started shuffling around the room, looking like some sort of creature with her hands still over her face.

"Kathryn, if you want I can give you a sedative and you can sleep here in my office for a while," he offered. Sleeping in the office was against asylum policy, but he felt she might be safer here where he could watch over her.

Her movement didn't stop, but she dropped her arms and turned her head backwards. "And the sedative will let me go to sleep? Will it make the crawling things go away?" she whispered.

"Well … I suppose it would make the _crawling things_ go away, since it would force you to fall asleep. You'll be asleep for awhile, maybe nine hours or so. Is that alright?" Kathryn nodded and walked over to him with awkward, twitchy steps. He would need to cancel all appointments for the rest of the day in order to do research and keep guard over her - Arkham was not a place to leave a patient unattended.

Fishing around in the medicine drawer of his desk, he found a syringe of -sedative- and pulled it out. "I'm going to use an injection because it'll work faster," he explained. Startled, she scuttled to the side quickly, holding her upper arms.

"No shots. No shots," she mumbled. Crane shook his head.

"This is the best way. Do you want to go to sleep or not?" he sternly reminded her. Quickly her hands flew away and she looked at him with anticipation. The needle entered a vein and allowed -sedative- to enter her system. After a minute or two, her head drooped; he helped her over to the couch, where she sprawled out and was quickly unconscious. It wasn't exactly sleep, but it was close enough.

_I see you've taken a liking to this one, Jonny. She's out for the count. Why don't we have some fun?_

Crane jumped into the air. For a second, he thought someone was in the room. But the voice was familiar … and silent. He hadn't been paying enough attention, he hadn't tried hard enough to keep him quiet.

_Don't lie to yourself, Jonny-boy. You like it when we have these little conversations. _There was a deep and bitter laugh. _Lord knows I don't get to play with you enough_.

"I don't need you. Be quiet and go away," he hissed under his breath.

_Yes you do. You need me. You're a cowardly little doctor, afraid of getting his hands dirty and ruining his fancy suit. Why not let me out and we'll just … see what happens? You know I won't hurt her too bad. She'll have enough brain power left to answer your questions - maybe. Or maybe not._

A glass paperweight, cut in the shape of a perfectly polished hemisphere, smashed against the wall and shattered.

_Trying to fight back? Oh, tsk tsk, Jonny. You know that just makes things worse._ _Besides, what is broken glass gonna do to me? I'm all in your head._

Even the shock of the breaking glass hadn't been enough - usually, loud noises chased him off. Not this time. This time, it seemed like something terrible was going to happen. And of course it had to be while Kathryn was in the room.

_If you let me have my fun for just ten minutes, I'll leave you and the girl there alone._

Crane knew he had to deny him. If he let _him_ take control willingly, there would be no going back.

_I'll get it eventually anyways. Because I know you'll never get rid of me. I keep the crows away…_

A vision flashed through his mind - a swarm of crows diving down, attacking him, biting at him. He would not be afraid, he would not be afraid.

_Oh yes you will. You'll always be afraid. You claim to master fear, but you're just a pansy. Jonny-boy's a little pansy, lives with granny, scared of birds, uses words instead of fists like a real man could, like a real man should. You're not a man, you're a girl. A scared little girl like … what's her name? Kathy? Only she's clinically scared. She's got a reason for it. What about you, huh?_

Crane remained silent, digging his fingers into the wood surface of his desk.

_One day you'll lose your focus, and I'll come crawling in. And you'll have to bow down and bow out. Buddy boy, I'm stronger than you. The Scarecrow always wins._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yet again I almost forgot this little author's note thing - maybe I'm just unobservant or something. I don't know. Maybe it's because my other fic doesn't have notes because I forgot then too. Thanks to my reviewers - I'm rushing this chapter as much as I can to try and get it up today, even though as I write this note I have no ideas as to what's going to happen. So I'm going to wing it! I think next chapter, Kathryn might be meeting the Scarecrow - it depends on what happens here! Read and review/enjoy/spit upon.**

Kathryn would be coming in any minute now. He could only hope that her symptoms would have gone away, since he hadn't figured out what was going on. The symptoms were bizarre, and he could only theorize that she was suffering from some sort of hypochondriacally-linked symptoms. But she wasn't a hypochondriac … it was certainly a conundrum. Seroxat was known to cause tremors - this patient certainly was not suffering from garden-variety tremors. This was like nothing he could remember observing.

On a whim, he gave one of his fellow physicians a call. Crane's elegant fingers flew over the buttons as he pressed the receiver to his ear. "Hello, Lea? Please put me through to Dr. Newton," he asked of the receptionist, who told him to hold for a moment.

"Crane? What do you need?" a disgruntled man questioned. He didn't sound very pleased to be called up by the director of the asylum. Usually, calls like these meant only the worst for employees. Budget cuts. Salary slashing. Pink slips.

"I need your advice on a case. Prescribed seroxat and a day later the patient couldn't stop moving. She described it as 'inner tightness', said it felt like there was something crawling inside her. You have any ideas?" Crane asked, his voice clipped. He didn't like asking for advice; it meant he was no longer in control of a situation. And this was especially bad - asking advice of an _inferior doctor_? A shiver ran down his spine just thinking about it.

Only silence answered him for a moment. "Akathisia. It's caused by a lot of SSRIs, including seroxat. Give her propranolol. Is that all, Crane?" Dr. Newton snapped.

"Yes, that's all. Thank you for the consult," Crane muttered in reply before hanging up the phone. Of course it was akathisia. Why didn't he figure it out? Crane the genius, Crane the professor, Crane the youngest director in the history of Arkham Asylum, and he couldn't diagnose akathisia as a result of an SSRI. At least he could take comfort in the fact that he wasn't the first to have missed it, not by a long shot. It was hard to catch simply because most people suffering from akathisia were psychotic and unable to be trusted. He'd only had one session to examine her symptoms, which also alleviated the stupidity he felt.

The door opened hesitantly, and Kathryn's blonde head poked in. Sitting behind his desk, he waved the girl in. As before, she refused to sit down.

_Give her a slap. I think it would be good for her. It would take her places…_

"I have good news for you, Kathryn. I figured out what's wrong and how to treat it. You're suffering from a side effect of the seroxat. It's called akathisia. We can treat it with propranolol. Your symptoms should go away once we start you on this new medication -" Crane was cut off as she started hissing angrily.

"M-more medication? Couldn't you just stop giving me the other stuff? It makes my head hurt, and I feel sick. Don't make me take it any more. Please," she begged, her eyes flashing with desperation. All of a sudden her hands were grasping at the lapels of his charcoal grey suit, pulling him down to his knees. With a loud hollow clunk, her forehead smacked into his, and she stared deeply into his eyes. The girl's gaze was crazed and panicked.

The doctor quickly pushed Kathryn away from him and onto the floor, wiping dust from his coat. "The side effects should go away within a few weeks. Meanwhile, would you like to talk about the reason for your entrance into Arkham?" he prompted. With all the fervor of a person on fire, she grasped his legs and shook her head, smacking her skull into his bony knees. The fingers that wrapped around his thighs twitched and trembled.

"Have you had any panic attacks since you started taking the seroxat?" he asked, impatient. Pushing her from him seemed to be a wasted effort, so he awkwardly patted her head, wincing at the heavy grease in her hair.

_Let me treat her. Come on, let me treat her! I'll make her problems go away. You know I can._

"Well, well, no, but - but it's not worth it! It's not worth this," she cried into his trousers. Tears were beginning to stream down the expensive fabric, but what could he do? Kicking patients was not generally part of the normal doctor's routine, and while he felt he would be able to beat a teenage girl in a fight, it went against every fiber in his body.

"Not worth what? A side effect that we can treat for you? A bit of nausea? A headache? Sounds like a little thing to _fuss_ about when your life has just been radically _improved. _Maybe we should try another medication…" Crane trailed off, shaking his head swiftly. The motion was enough to at least chase the Scarecrow back into the darker recesses of his psyche, although his laughter still echoed through his mind.

"What do you mean, another medication?" she whimpered. Again Crane shook his head, to drive the sound from his ears.

"The propranolol. To treat the akathisia," he replied, the words falling from his mouth more quickly than they should. She seemed to be too distracted by her shaking legs, which was fortunate for him, as it gave him a chance to stifle the Scarecrow completely.

Again and again her head smacked against his leg, and she did not respond. "Fine. Give me the damn pills. But do you promise they'll help?" she finally sighed. Crane nodded with satisfaction; the banging against his leg continued.

"What's wrong?" he inquired dully.

"It still hurts," she moaned in response. After an especially hard impact, she pulled away and stood up, cradling her head as she began to pace.

"How are you feeling? Mentally, I mean," he corrected. It was obvious she was in pain, and he didn't need any more details.

"Tight. Everything is all coiled up. And the things are still crawling around inside, little bugs. When it's quiet I can hear them skittering … but I'm not panicking. For the first time in a year, I'm stressed out of my m-mind and I haven't had a panic attack yet. I don't know what your witch doctor medicine did, but - but - thank you. Thank you," she muttered. Odd. He had never been accused of being a witch doctor, although the title was somewhat logical, when he thought about it.

"I'm just doing my job, Kathryn. When you go to dinner you'll get seroxat and propranolol - you should notice a change tonight or tomorrow. You have another session with me tomorrow, so we'll talk then," Crane assured her optimistically. If propranolol was recommended, then it had at least a fair chance of working. He could not foresee any other outcome.

"What if I can't sleep again?" she worried aloud. Odd how that was what she would think about, but he supposed that being forced to take drugs to sleep on top of what she was experiencing already might be more than a bit stressful.

"I'll have someone check on you after lights out. If you're still awake, you'll get more of the sedative I gave you yesterday. Don't worry yourself," he scolded mildly.

"I never stop worrying," she said hollowly. When he was able to catch her eye in the midst of her mad pacing, any light in her eyes was dead. That development didn't concern him too much; Crane was actually unaccustomed to seeing patients with bright, shining eyes. Most of the inmates were totally and utterly defeated, willing to submit because they knew no other way. They never fought. They never felt. Some days, it made him cherish the soul that burned in his chest, however tiny it was. Other days he had to fight wave after wave of nausea as patients with eyes of glass passed in and out of his office, accomplishing nothing after years of treatment and therapy. Something within him, buried deeply beneath layer upon layer of knowledge and fear, was repulsed by the realization that a human spirit could be snuffed so easily.

"Inform me tomorrow how the propranolol affects you," he reminded her absently as she shuffled from the room. What would happen tomorrow was anyone's guess - Jonathan Crane hoped for the best but feared the worst in the most extreme way possible.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Alright, so two chapters a day is apparently feasible if you stay up until two AM and sleep until noon. Maybe that's just what it takes XD. Anyways! Here's where a disclaimer should go if I cared enough to insert one. I think you guys will like this chapter! Thanks to my awesome reviewers. If this chapter is quick, I might do THREE chapters today. :D And yes, that is a tribute to the late Billy Mays in there. You'll know it when you see it.**

The sunny spring morning found Jonathan Crane sitting in his office, poring over a patient's file. He had been up since four o'clock that morning, and hadn't gone to sleep until midnight. Essentially, he was running on empty, and that was giving the Scarecrow free reign.

_Hey, this guy's not getting any help from our treatment. Why not send him downstairs?_

He had had too little sleep to fight against his alter, and simply wrote the note into the man's file. There was a sense of dark satisfaction deep within his mind. Sighing, he tossed the file aside and laid his head down on his desk. A little nap before his next appointment wouldn't hurt.

His next appointment. Kathryn. Would the propranolol have helped her at all? He hoped and prayed that it would have, or she might become non-compliant. No matter what side effects she was suffering from, the seroxat had helped her in a remarkable way.

_I could help her too. If she's scared out of her mind, she won't worry anymore!_

"Shut up! Let me do _my _job and leave me alone," Crane hissed, rubbing his fingers into his scalp.

_Technically, they hired your body, not your mind._

"They hired me for my knowledge, so essentially, they did hire me for my mind," he snapped.

_I told you how to get me to go away, if you're frustrated._

"No," he said simply.

_Fine. I'll be back later, Jonny-boy._

And there was silence. Why, why would this beast not leave him be? No matter what he tried, the Scarecrow always came back. Taunting him. He had taken medications. Nothing. Gone to church. Nothing (not that he had expected much; Crane had never been a religious man). Read self-help book after self-help book. Nothing. There was nothing he could do to get rid of the demon that plagued his thoughts.

A little blonde head poked its way into his office just like yesterday. Her eyes were brighter, more alive. When she came in, she settled down contentedly in a chair, her fingers tapping across her knees.

"I take it the propranolol worked?" he asked cheerfully. She grinned and shook her head.

"I don't know. I didn't take it," she admitted with a guilty smile.

"You didn't take your medication," he deadpanned. Kathryn nodded.

"I feel better. I didn't take it last night or this morning - just slipped the pills into, uh, into my napkin. Nobody noticed. They weren't paying attention to me. Now my head doesn't hurt and I slept last night without a shot. And I can sit down! I don't have to stand up and walk around. I can sit and nothing crawls inside. It's nice," she sighed. A grand bang filled her ears as Crane's fists impacted the wooden desk.

"Why would you do that? It was helping you, didn't you see that? Didn't you understand that?" he barked, walking around the desk to loom over her. Without a thought, his hand shot into the pocket of his jacket, where a small spray bottle was mounted on an elastic band. He pulled that band over his wrist with practiced ease and hid the bottle under his sleeve.

_Oh, Jonny-boy's pulling out the big guns! Good for you. You _do_ have the antidote, though, don't you? Don't want her to lose her head completely, do we?_

And Crane was too tired to fight back, as the Scarecrow slid into the driver's seat. A wide and malicious grin spread across his face.

"Why, hello, Kathryn. It's so nice to meet you," Scarecrow said in a sickly sweet voice. The girl pressed herself into the chair, breathing heavily.

"D-d-d-doctor C-c-crane?" she stammered weakly. Her eyes were open so wide she looked like a little bug. Scarecrow imagined squashing her, and chuckled at the though.

"No, no. I'm the Scarecrow. Just think of me as Dr. Crane - the deluxe edition. Available for a limited time only! Here's how to get yours," he hissed. With two long strides, he was behind the desk and pulling out the mask, activating the voice changer. It fit nicely over his head once he took off Crane's glasses - Scarecrow wasn't doing any reading, so no need to hold onto them. The lenses cracked in his hand.

"But wait, there's more!" he shouted, loosing a cloud of toxin into the air. The girl sucked in lungful after lungful - it was almost a waste, when someone was already so panicked and skittish. The shit wasn't cheap or easy to make, and Scarecrow wished he hadn't bothered. Too late now, though, and he might as well have some fun. It was fortunate that Crane had manufactured an antidote a few months ago - while he didn't use it on patients, it was a failsafe. And it would let Scarecrow save this little toy for later. She would be even more fun the second time, he guessed.

"Welcome to hell," he snarled, as the girl tumbled to the floor, whimpering under her breath. No one would hear her, and if they did, they wouldn't care. Plenty of patients screamed in Arkham. It wasn't new to anyone.

"Tell me, little girl, what do you see?" The voice was grating, brutal, as it shot straight into the heart of Kathy - Kitten - Kathryn. That was her name. But she went by Kit. Crane didn't believe in nicknames; Scarecrow did. They were tools.

Poor child didn't seem to be able to form a single word. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

"Kit, are you afraid of me? Don't be afraid. I'm here to _help_ you," he murmured. The device in front of his mouth made the words sound more like the growls of some vicious animal.

"No, daddy, no, daddy, go away, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I won't do it again, I'm sorry," she gasped, rolling into a ball on the floor.

"It's okay, Kit. Daddy's here, it's okay," he laughed. In a flash he was kneeling beside her, his hand on her back.

"Daddy, no! I'm sorry, don't hurt me!" The girl scuttled away, pressing herself into a corner. So she was abused? Well, he would have fun with that. His footsteps were deliberate as he walked toward her.

"Please," she howled, and her hands flew over her face.

_If you keep going, you'll kill her._

Crane had finally woken up, it seemed, and Scarecrow was depressed to realize that he was right.

_Give her the antidote. Second drawer from the bottom, right side._

He sounded like he had been crying. What a fucking pansy. Scarecrow pulled out the antidote, and held it for a moment. Contemplating.

_Just do it, Scarecrow._

Well, if he could make Jonny-boy beg, maybe he would just wait for a minute.

_Oh, please._

Crane was in control again, and he instantly let loose a cloud of the antidote spray into the air. Kathryn coughed and brushed her hands over her nose. After a few minutes of tense anticipation, Crane - long since bare-faced - offered a hand to her.

"Get away from me," she ordered with violence dripping from every word.

"Kathryn, that wasn't me. You have no idea what's going on!" he pleaded. What would happen if she became afraid of him - truly afraid? She would continue to throw away her pills, and she would revert totally. Her admittance would have been for naught if she lost her trust in him.

"Get away from me, please." Now she was cowering again, clutching her head.

"Kathryn, I swear to you, none of that was intentional. There are things about me -" He was cut off by a hitching wail.

"Y-you're m-making my s-s-s-stomach h-h-hurt, and m-my he-head h-h-hurt, and I c-can't b-b-b-breathe. Please m-make it g-g-g-g-go away," she sobbed. Crane scrambled in his desk drawer until he found diazepam, and the medication was quickly in her veins. She stayed huddled up even after the shuddering subsided.

After several tense, silent minutes, Crane again offered her his hand. "Come on, Kathryn. I'm not going to hurt you. _I have never hurt you. The Scarecrow hurt you. That isn't me," he told her, his outstretched hand a plea for forgiveness._

_Contact. Her fingers wrapped around the doctor's hand, and he helped her rise to her feet. "Never again. Never, never, never again. I don't want to come here again," she told him when she was standing. "I'm sorry." And then she was leaning against him, her head pressed against his shoulder. Not quite sure of what to do, he began rubbing her back with slow circular motions._

"_I'll start coming to your room for sessions. It's not unheard of." Truly, it wasn't, especially not at Arkham, filled with unstable patients who weren't comfortable leaving their rooms. Besides, there was no one to stop him, was there? As director he was allowed virtual free reign inside the asylum._

"_No."_

_For a moment, Crane froze. "No? What do you mean, no? You can't refuse treatment here," he sternly reminded her._

_No answer, but her head pulled away from his shoulder as far as she could manage while his arms were wrapped around her. When he didn't release his grip, Kathryn started to fight back._

"_Let me go," she whispered._

"_Take your medication," he shot back. A shake of the head._

"_No. It makes me hurt. I'm sorry," she mumbled, still trying to pull away._

"_Stop apologizing and take the damn pills when you go to dinner tonight," he snapped. At that moment she slipped from his grasp._

"_They hurt me."_

"_I have ways to make you take them." That was that, in his mind. Kathryn needed these medications, and he knew just the way to get her to take them. Angrily, she stumbled away and laid out on her couch, long legs hanging off the edge._

"_Kathryn, it's time for you to go back to your room," he called loudly. The teenager was already slumbering, her jaw slightly slack. It wasn't worth the fight he would face if he awoke her, so Crane decided to let her be._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: It's almost 1:30 AM right now as I write this author's note; probably won't finish the chapter before I go to sleep but ehhh. Thanks again to my reviewers, insert a disclaimer here, blah blah blah. I wasn't really satisfied with the last chapter and it took WAY too long to write. Hopefully this one will go better! I know how this chapter going to go (not well, but that's only bad for the characters). Just in case anyone was confused, this is not a romance. It will not be a romance. Crane is at least twenty-something, maybe thirty-ish. Kit is 14. Not only is that skeevy, it's illegal. And I just don't see it working out between them - she's afraid all the time, he's scary most of the time. Bad things would happen. EDIT: I'm so very sorry this didn't go up last night. It was supposed to, but then I wasn't allowed to take my computer upstairs with me and I had to go to bed at 10:00. Thanks, Mom! (not) Because of that, it's extra long! Next chapter may or may not go up later tonight.**

There were no appointments to cancel when Crane decided to bring Kathryn up for a little dinnertime session. No one questioned him when he asked to have a meal sent up for his patient. Everything was going too perfectly. Hopefully, this would get her to take the pills. If not, he'd have to try again tomorrow.

She looked confused when she was brought away from the dining room before swallowing a bite of food, but that confusion quickly shifted to anger as she realized her destination. Two orderlies had to all but toss the skinny girl through the door that read 'Doctor Jonathan Crane'. She had been chased out when she awoke two hours after falling dead asleep on his couch, and she had promised she would never come back.

"I told you I didn't w-want to come here," she mumbled.

"Relax, Kathryn. I just wanted you to share dinner with me - on one condition," he added in with a smirk. A tiny cup that rattled when shaken, containing two pills.

"If you take them, you'll get your meal. Otherwise, you go to bed hungry." The frank callousness in his voice surprised him, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. Kathryn's reaction was what he was focusing on.

"B-but I'm _hungry_," she moaned, dropping her head into her heads.

"Take the pills, then. It's that easy." This would be the first time he had ever withheld food from a patient to get them to take pills, but it wasn't a terrible procedure. It wasn't like he could crush up the pills and put them in grape juice. She wasn't five.

"Do you promise that they won't make the crawling things come back?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"I can't make any promises, but propranolol is often effective at getting rid of akathisia," he noted. This was true - he'd done research into the wee hours of the night, assuring himself that she would be okay.

"_Often_ effective. S-so it might not work. I might not be able to sleep tonight. That's what you're saying," she mumbled. Crane sighed heavily.

"Yes, that's what I'm saying. But we won't know until we try, will we? How would you like to make a deal with me?" he proposed, smiling. The girl looked at him with her head tilted to one side, eyebrows furrowed.

"You take your pills tonight. If the akathisia comes back, I'll find you a different anxiety medication. If it doesn't, you promise to take your pills. Does that sound good?" Lord, he hoped it did. What else could he do?

"I don't want to take them."

This girl was _stubborn_. Was it really that bad, or was she just unwilling to give up?

"You're sure about that? You won't take them even once? Why not, when you can stop taking them if they don't work? Would it be that bad to go through that just one more time, if that?" he inquired.

She was shaking, but it looked to be more from anger than panic. "You have no idea! You didn't listen to me. I-it feels like I'm crawling out of my skin. Like little bugs with claws are crawling around inside me, snapping at me whenever I sit down. Like if I don't walk around constantly I'm going to wind up so tight that I break. Don't you understand? I can't do that again. No deal. I'm sorry," she snapped, every word sharp as a dagger. The tray of food went in the garbage can.

"Fine. I'll ask you again tomorrow and see what your answer is then. Meanwhile, why don't we try and do some actual therapy in one of these sessions for once? What happened between you and your father?" he asked quietly. It wasn't something he should have known, and he was afraid it wasn't something he should ask either.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said, her tone clipped.

"I need to know. It's important if you really want to deal with your anxiety. I think he might be the cause of it, and if I know the root of the problem I might be able to alleviate some of it," he explained.

"I don't want to talk about it," she repeated.

A pause. "Alright then. What are you usually most anxious about?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Now she sounded bitter and on the verge of tears.

"Where do you have the most panic attacks?"

"I don't want to talk about it!" she screamed, grasping her head. She seemed to do that a lot when she was frightened or upset; did she get headaches frequently?

"What helps alleviate your anxiety?"

"I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to talk about it! Leave me alone! Get out of my head!" she howled, clawing at the skin around her ears.

"What do you mean, get out of your head?" he prodded, looking at her with concern in his eyes.

"Shut up shut up shut up shut up … I'm sorry," she muttered, sounding more like herself.

"What did you mean?" This wasn't going anywhere.

"You're making my head hurt and I don't want to talk about it. You're not listening to me! No one listens to me!" Kathryn exclaimed, then covered her mouth in shock.

He was afraid to push the girl any further, since she already seemed to be in such a fragile state. The gold mine she had just revealed, though, couldn't be passed up. "I'm listening to you. Tell me what's wrong," he beseeched.

"He didn't believe me. I embarrassed him, he said. When I would … b-break down in public … he told me I was hungry for attention, that I was just faking it. Are you happy now? That's what happened," she grunted, tossing a violent glare at him.

"Why are you afraid of him?" he inquired, with a tip of the head toward her.

"It's nothing. I don't want to talk about it," she said for the ninth time that day.

"Obviously, it's not nothing. Children do not fear their parents without reason … Did he hit you?" A logical conclusion, to be sure. Through the haze of the Scarecrow's twisted perceptions, he had certainly heard the words 'daddy, no, don't hurt me'. What else would make her say that?

"No! No, he didn't. No, he didn't. He didn't touch me. Why won't you leave me alone?" she hissed. Her fingers were pulling on her earlobes, and her head tossed like a swimmer shaking water from her ears.

"What's wrong? Do you have a headache? I can get you something -"

"No, no, no! I don't want your goddamn _pills_! It's always _pills_ with you!" she screeched.

"What is your problem with medications?" he barked. The girl refused to take any pills. It couldn't just be the side effects, could it?

She was silent for a moment, contemplative. "Please make it go away," she pleaded.

"Wait. How long has it been since you've eaten?"

"Whenever breakfast was. I wasn't feeling good so I had a piece of toast and some juice and then I slept in here right through lunch. Wasn't hungry anyways," she admitted with a fierce stare. That hurt. As if he hadn't been feeling enough guilt. He should have been stronger, he should have kept Scarecrow at bay. But he was weak.

"Are you willing to take your medicine?" he murmured.

"Fine, whatever, just make it go away. Make the bad things go away." Her voice was soft - she sounded much younger than he'd heard from her before. Rapidly, Crane grabbed the cup of pills and a bottle of water from his desk. She swallowed them, her eyes growing bloodshot and wet. Was she about to cry?

"Can I have something to eat?" she requested. He nodded fervently and picked up the phone.

"Lea, I need a meal sent up here. Quickly," he adjured. The receptionist gave a small noise of affirmation and hung up the phone. As if she could no longer stay vertical, Kathryn stumbled over to the couch and curled up in a loose ball. The doctor followed her and sat beside her. To his surprise, she laid her head on his leg and closed her eyes.

The door opened slowly, warily, and an orderly stepped halfway into the room with a tray of food. "Put it on the desk," Crane called absently. The orderly did as he was bade and left the room, but his face was confused. As soon as he was gone, she scrambled to her feet and rushed the desk, falling on the tray of food like a hungry dog. He knew that asylum food was tasteless, so she must have been starving.

In just a few minutes, the plate was cleaned and she sat back contentedly. "Thank you," she beamed.

"Do you want to lie back down?" Crane asked, his voice hesitant. She nodded, and he sat at the edge of the couch. She quickly laid out as she had before her head snuggled into his thigh, legs crooked, limbs tangled together.

"I'm sorry. I'm a terrible patient, a waste of your time. I'll never get better. Especially if there's n-nothing wrong. Is it all in my head?" she mumbled. The sound was muffled slightly by the couch.

"Technically, it is all in your head, but not in the way you mean. Your symptoms are real. Whatever anyone has told you, what you are going through is a legitimate mental problem," he reassured her. When his fingers ran through her hair, he found it much cleaner than before; she must have bathed since then. Her short blonde hair didn't fall under normal standards of cleanliness, but it was better than nothing.

"Thank you, Dr. Crane," she mumbled, nuzzling against his leg - she seemed to be tired.

It wasn't until he felt warm water on his leg that he realized she was crying. "What's wrong, Kathryn?"

"My parents would never let me do this when I was upset. Not since I was little," she admitted, her voice choked. What was he to say? Crane hadn't much experience dealing with children.

"It's okay. Everything's going to be alright. I'll make everything all better," he said in a voice almost like a coo. Was that what he should have done? It was obvious he shouldn't have told her what he felt was the truth - that her parents did not care - but somehow he felt as if words weren't enough. Was he supposed to hug her, rock her to sleep, kiss her wounds and put a band-aid on them? No, he reminded himself. Kathryn was fourteen, well past childish gestures such as those. But what she wanted from him, he did not know.

He found out when the sound of her breathing slowed to the steady pace of one deep in slumber. Slowly and cautiously he started to rub her back like he had seen others do - a light hand, up and down, circling lazily from side to side.

"Sweet dreams," he whispered.

They sat that way for quite awhile. Soon after his legs fell asleep, Crane realized his own exhaustion and dozed off. He was expecting to have nightmares, as he did most every time he fell asleep, but there were no horrors across his eyes.

When the telephone rang, she woke up first, shaking his leg petulantly. "The phone, Dr. Crane," she mumbled. He scrambled up and yanked the phone up. It slammed against his ear in his eagerness.

"Dr. Crane, Kathryn Winner is missing. Is she still with you?" Lea asked, quite flustered.

"Yes, she's still in my office. I'll make sure she gets back to her room when we're done," he assured the receptionist. For having just woken up, he sounded remarkably composed.

"May I ask what you're doing, exactly?" Not exactly a good thing to ask most of the time, but today that was not a question he was afraid to answer.

"She fell asleep on the couch, and I didn't want to wake her and rouse her anxiety," he explained.

There was laughter on the end of the line, and he could hear faintly, "I told you he was getting busy with that girl!"

Is that what they automatically assumed? Just because a patient slept in his office, they thought he was _sleeping _with her?

"You are disgusting, Miss Jameson, and I will have you know that I, unlike you, operate on a system of moral standards. The girl is fourteen! Why don't you think of what you say before it comes out of your mouth, huh?" By then he was shouting into the phone, and he hung up without waiting for a response.

"Kathryn, I'm sorry about that. You can go back to sleep if you'd like," he quietly informed her as he turned back toward the couch.

She wasn't there. At first, he panicked, but then he saw a hand hidden in the shadows beneath the couch. He laid on the floor and looked underneath, where he found the girl pressed against the wall and breathing unevenly.

"No, daddy, please don't yell, I didn't mean to say that, I'm sorry. It's all in my head. It's all in my head. I made it up. It's all in my head. Please don't yell," she whispered. One of her arms was draped over her face.

"Kathryn, it's me. Doctor Crane. Your father's not here. Don't worry. No one's yelling," he insisted. That seemed to snap her out of it, and she slowly crawled out from her hiding place. She was shaking.

"I'm sorry. But … but he said … one time … and he was yelling … and you were … yelling," she mumbled. Crane's long arms pulled her up onto the couch and into his lap.

"It's alright. I wasn't yelling at you. Just calm down and take a deep breath," he told her in a very quiet voice. She nodded and laid against him.

"You ought to go back to your room, but I think that I can make an exception this time," he laughed. At some point, though, he would have to go home. Though he wasn't quite willing to admit it to himself, he knew that he didn't want to be alone. Scarecrow would come, and he knew that his alter would have a few words for him. Fortunately, no one would question him, since they knew that Kathryn was in his office.

"I'mma go back 'a sleep. G'night," she babbled, and then muttered a word that started with a d. He could not tell if she had said 'doctor' or 'daddy', since her face pressed against his chest before she finished speaking.

"What did you say , Kathryn?" he inquired.

"I said g'night, daddy. See ya tomorrow."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed the last chapter! I felt it was action-packed enough to make up for the delay. This one is pretty powerful. There's a lot of … stuff … you'd have to read to find out. I don't want to spoil it! I want to put a big special thanks here to my anonymous reviewer - usually I send out replies to reviews, and since you posted anonymously, I figured I would just make you feel all awkward. You know who you are! Thank you so much for the review! You inspired me to stay up until midnight writing the last chapter (even though I couldn't post it until recently because it took awhile to finish). I hope my writing continues to bring you such enjoyment and I really appreciate the review.**

**A/N cont: This is fairly delayed because I started painting my bathroom yesterday! It's going pretty well - covering up nasty, worn white with a sort of olive tan. Yay for paint! I started the next chapter already, so it will HOPEFULLY be done tonight. No promises, though. Sorry the updates are slowing down a little bit.**

It was morning, or so the rising sun led him to believe. Kathryn had gone back to her room at about four in the morning, and he had only returned home to change, nap for an hour, and eat a quick breakfast before returning to work, exhausted.

A special morning appointment had been set up - Crane only had three patients at the moment, so his schedule was flexible - right after breakfast. He wanted to see how the propranolol worked to fight off the akathisia. Expecting nothing short of disaster, he opened his office door to find Kathryn standing there smiling, her hand held by a rather perplexed orderly.

"So the medication worked, then?" he asked.

"Well, I think it did. I mean, I'm not worried or panicked, but then again, I've really done nothing but sleep. No more crawling things, though," she replied as Crane pulled her into the room and shut the door.

"I need to talk to you about something. Are you sure you're feeling alright?" he confirmed, to which she nodded.

"Last night, right before you fell asleep, you called me 'daddy'. Do you have any idea why you did that?"

The old Kathryn was back in a flash; her eyes slammed shut and her fingers began tapping rapidly across her kneecaps. "I - I was tired. I don't know. I didn't mean to. It's not my fault!" she exclaimed.

"Whose fault is it, then?" he prompted her gently. No need to spoil all her progress with one harsh question.

"His - yours - I don't know. I don't even remember saying it, really. All I r-remember was you yelling and then I hid under the couch and then I went to sleep," she recounted, fingers wrapping around each other.

"So you don't know why you called me that … do you love your father?" he asked suddenly.

"No. Wait, no, I meant - that's not what I meant, I'm sorry, I meant - what I meant was - I'm - he started it," she grumbled. Her head fell heavily into her hands. What a development!

"How did he start it?"

"When I started getting sick, he would let me stay home from school. He came by from work to pick me up when I would have attacks. And then a month went by, maybe even just a few weeks. He told me he was fed up with it. He wouldn't do it anymore. I tried to tell him, but he screamed at me. Said to me, 'Why don't you think of what you say before it comes out of your mouth, huh?' I started hiding in my bedroom after that. Eventually my mom took me out of school. Every day he came home, he would yell at me. Told me I was good for nothing, a drama queen, a malingering piece of shit. So I sat in my bedroom and did my homework and tried to breathe even though I felt l-like I was coming to p-pieces and I couldn't h-hold myself together and my h-head was r-ripping apart but I couldn't - c-couldn't -" The words finally degraded into simple chattering, shuddering sobs.

He couldn't speak. The shock of it all was silencing. An unbearable shame crashed over him - how could he not have realized? Worst of all, Crane had unknowingly quoted her father word for word.

"I'm … I'm so sorry. Kathryn, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to say that. I didn't know. I had no idea," he whispered. She was sitting, hunched over, in the wooden chair across from his desk; his arm was all of a sudden draped over her shoulders. The sobs were too thick for her to reply, even though it sounded like she tried.

"I think you might have to go to court. You're getting so much better already, but you can't go back to that. I'd just see you here again in a week. I can't allow that. It's not healthy. It's not _right_," he asserted.

Still no answer. She just kept crying and crying, until finally her tears dried and she dropped her forehead to her knees. "I don't want to go home. I don't want to go home. Please don't send me back there. I want to stay here, I can't … I can't …" It seemed she was at a loss for words, and he started rubbing her upper arm vigorously.

"Please, don't send me home. I won't - I won't take my pills. You just want me to take them so you can send me back there! I don't want to go back! I knew your fucking pills were nothing but trouble, I knew it, I won't take them any more! I'll throw them in the garbage! I've been here for weeks and nothing good has happened to me! You and your pills, you've made my life nothing … misery … but I don't want to go back. I'm sorry, sorry … just frustrated. Frustrated with everything. It's not worth it, you know? Nothing is worth all this," she muttered. That alarmed him, and he raised his eyebrows for a moment before frowning.

"Kathryn, you don't mean to say that you're -"

"Oh, no, I'm sorry. Not s-suicidal. Just - I'm here, because _he_ wouldn't take care of me any more, and then everything with the medication, and now you're talking about going to court which means I'd have to see him, fight him, and I haven't had any panic attacks for a while which is nice but then a big one could be building up and everything's so stressful and it's really dirty around here and I want to clean up but they wouldn't give me a rag or a sponge or anything. It's a lot to deal with," she finished, smiling weakly. Apparently, when she had something to say, she was prone to ranting. She just _talked_. He would have to remember that, for later.

_Later when, Jonny-boy? Later when she's falling asleep in your arms and you stop paying attention? Later when she's screaming your name and hiding under your couch while you cower inside your own head?_

**Stop it, Scarecrow. I don't have time for your games.**

_Oh, she looks confused. You mean you didn't tell her? Let me clue her in!_

And he took control.

"Here, kitty, kitty," he purred, pushing her head until she was facing him. By the look on her face, she recognized the change in his voice, the glint in his eye.

**Get out! Don't you hurt her!**

"Oh, daddy's getting a little defensive. We can't let him have you though. You don't love him, do you? Well, do you love me?" His fingers twined around her slender neck, while his other hand grabbed her wrists.

"No, no, no, no," she whispered. A well-placed kick hit him right in the nether regions, and both of his hands flew away. Crane thought he'd be able to regain power then, but Scarecrow pushed him back.

"Not yet, daddy. You can have her back when we've finished our playdate," Scarecrow laughed, staggering to his feet. Kitty was pressed into a corner. Her face was white and emotionless, as if the whole thing was too much to bear.

**Get back where you belong.**

Crane hurried to her side and tried to wrap an arm around her shoulder, to make her sit down, but she weakly pushed him away and turned into the wall.

"I am so sorry. Let me explain, please. You have to understand, it's not me who does these things! I never intended to hurt you. I didn't. But when I'm tired, things happen, things I can't control. Forgive me," he pleaded, but her face stayed pressed against the fading white paint.

"At least sit down, please. You don't look well," he stated quietly, eliciting no response from the frozen girl. Finally, he grabbed her upper arms and forced her into the chair.

"Sit there while I call to have you sent back to your room," he ordered. She didn't seem like she would be fighting back much anyways.

When an orderly came to fetch her, she stayed sitting. He called her name once, twice, while Crane looked at her worriedly.

"Kathryn, are you alright?" Crane asked. No answer.

They had to get a second orderly to help her up; when she stood, she slumped in their grasp, and her head hung. Together the two men pulled her gently until she stumbled from the room.

A tear rolled Jonathan Crane's cheek.

**A/N: Yes, I do love using his full name to end chapters. I think it adds drama.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Chapter may be delayed due to painting of bathroom. Also, as I'm writing this my cable is out and I don't know how long it'll be before I can post this chapter. And the heat in my house is stifling enough that it's really uncomfortable to use my laptop. So, the world is currently working against me, but I have faith in my abilities to successfully succeed! Oh, and I know that the events you're about to read were sort of rushed, but I felt that it would get really uninteresting really fast. So I did a timeskip! And I have a retroactive edit to put in to the second chapter, but I'm lazy. Pretend that there were two or three weeks between their first appointment and the onset of akathisia. Thanks to the reviewer who pointed that out! :D**

A week went by. She came in for her appointments and sat in mindless silence for an hour before she was dragged away. Her wrists grew thinner and thinner as her eyes began to sink back into her skull. They had to start force-feeding her, they said.

Two weeks. Her plummeting weight had finally balanced out, but she didn't gain any of it back. Still, her appointments were silent. She did not move. She did not speak. She was dropped in the chair, where she sat for an hour until she was hauled back out again.

On the seventeenth day, Crane had had enough. "Was it so bad, huh? What broke you? I can't apologize enough. Come back. Please come back," he begged. His hands were clutched in front of his chest.

So weakly he thought he was imagining things, she muttered, "No."

She spoke! Jubilation rolled through him.

"Was that you? Are you okay?" he exclaimed.

"Don't wanna talk 'bout it," she mumbled.

"Oh, Kathryn, I thought you were never going to talk again!" He swept her up and into his lap in one quick movement; she made a noise like a hollow giggle.

"I'm all bony," she said in wonderment, looking at her wrists like they were foreign creatures. She hadn't noticed? She hadn't noticed the fat that was all but falling from her body? Something must have chased her from awareness.

"Why?" he asked simply.

"I'unno. Maybe I didn't eat enough." Suddenly her voice was dark and brooding.

"No, no, not that. Why did you - why did you _freeze_ like that?" Hesitantly, he stroked her forehead, like a parent tending a sick child.

She was silent for a while. "It's just a playdate to you. You'll send me back when I'm 'better'. So I got worse. I got worse real fast so you wouldn't send me away," she mumbled. She was probably weak from poor nutrition - he knew for a fact that the food they used for force feeding was barely enough to keep a patient alive.

"Kathryn, I told you before. That wasn't me. I will never send you back to your father," he promised. A bit of light returned to her face.

"B-but … but where will I go?" she whispered. Good question, he mused to himself. That was a matter for the hearing, though; in three days, Nicholas Winner would face his daughter, a judge, and Dr. Crane.

"We'll figure something out. Don't worry," he assured her. At that, she nodded and pressed her face into his chest.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered. "But it was … easier. It was easier to let everything happen. I didn't have to t-try." He could see that her eyelids were drooping.

"You can go to sleep. It's alright," he murmured in her ear. Weakly, her head bobbed up and down, and she curled up her skeletal legs, wrapping her arms around them.

"Hey doctor?" she asked drowsily.

"Yes, Kathryn?" he replied absently, focusing more on the simple fact that she was alive and talking, no longer the hollow shell that had come to him for two weeks.

"Will I see you when I have to leave? If I get adopted or somethin', you'll come to visit me, right?" she maundered, and she rolled over slightly to look at him with her sunken gray eyes.

"Of course I will. Whenever you want me to. No matter what's happening, I'll always come," he promised fervently; normally he would never think to pledge himself to a patient so fully, but it was what she needed to regain a stable lifestyle. "Now sleep. You're exhausted, I can tell," he ordered. Again she nodded, and her eyes closed.

Once she was asleep, he carefully lifted the girl up and placed her on the couch, where she rolled over and moaned, "S'cold, Daddy, s'cold." He pulled off his jacket and draped it over her slumbering form; that was enough to wake her up.

"Wha's up?" she grumbled. "Daddy, I was sleepin', whaddya need?" She had some strange insistence, especially when tired, that he was her father. While she was sleeping, he would study his notes on her.

"Nothing, Kathryn. Go back to sleep," he answered with a soft smile. Within a moment she had done as she was told, and Crane turned back to his desk. A large file was there waiting for him - he opened it almost eagerly. Beneath the information that had been added when she arrived, there were several pages of observations and analyses handwritten carefully in a neat and elegant print.

_When suffering from akathisia, she becomes very emotional - possibly due to fatigue? Stress?_

_Does not believe in medication. She refuses to take it when it causes the 'crawling things to come back'._

_She has a slight stutter - probably caused by stress from some prior event or manner of upbringing. Doesn't seem like a generic speech impediment - only becomes noticeable when she's stressed._

_Apologizes constantly, whether a situation is her fault or not. Probably because of her father? Maybe it's simple internal guilt, or a part of her nature. Should ask whether or not she did it before her symptoms set in._

_Fears her father, whether the fear is conscious or not. She says that he never physically abused her, but it's doubtful. In more stressful situations, any fear she has is projected onto an image of him._

_Seems to suffer from stress headaches - she clutches her head when she's angry, afraid, or anxious._

_Often taps her fingers - some sort of compulsion relating to her OCD or just a nervous habit?_

_Feels that no one listens to her. Probably true, since her father never listened to her about her problems. Is this the reason she doesn't like talking about her problems?_

To these notes, he added one more on a fresh page: _Lacking in paternal nurturing, and she is trying to find that nurturing in another male individual - me. She is in need of care from a real father figure twenty-four hours a day when she is released from Arkham. Must warn any potential adopting families of that._

Who would want to adopt her, anyways? It was obvious that she had to get out of her parents' home, but no parents in their right minds would take her on. She would be such a handful, with medications, possible panic attacks, and the probable dependence on the father, that adopting families would pass her right by, and she would stay in the system for the next four years, which would be completely unhealthy. The thought of a fragile mind like Kathryn's being shifted from foster home to foster home was enough to make him shudder.

But there was only one alternative, and it was completely unsafe for her. No, he simply could not do it. He could not risk it. She would be a foster child. Looking over at her, curled up and sleeping on his couch as she had done several times before, he felt guilty for not taking action, even though the opportunity had not even come up yet for him to act.

He couldn't leave her like that, and there was no other safe alternative. So what would he do? Suddenly, she stirred, flying up into a sitting position and breathing heavily.

"What's wrong? Are you alright?" he inquired from right beside her.

"Oh, oh, it was j-just a n-nightmare. J-j-just a n-n-nightmare," she whispered. Her knees shot up to meet her chin as she curled up into a ball.

"What did you dream about?" he asked her.

"S'nothing. Just a n-nightmare," she repeated and started to rock back and forth.

"What was the nightmare about?"

"I-I was … no, no, it was j-just a n-n-nightmare, it's not true, it's not true!"

"Kathryn, just tell me what's wrong. I can make it better for you." This was a new development; he couldn't remember hearing anything from the orderlies that patrolled her hall - no reports of nightmares or night terrors. Nothing.

"I went t-to a - but I c-can't tell y-you. You w-were there, you hurt m-me," she sobbed, tears overflowing and rolling from her eyes to her pants. What on earth had she dreamed about involving him? Actually, it was probably the Scarecrow she had dreamed about, but she hadn't yet learned the distinction between the two facets of his personality.

"What did I do? You have to tell me, Kathryn, so I can make it better," he urged.

"I went to a n-new home, and then y-you were in m-my b-bedroom and y-you shouted at me and y-you h-hit me. B-but you wouldn't r-really do th-that, w-would y-you?" She looked up at him, panicked, and ran her hands through her hair three times - another one of her compulsions.

"Of course. I would never do such a thing, and you know that. You were just having a nightmare," he said reassuringly. Although she seemed confused, she nodded.

"J-just a n-nightmare, j-just a nightmare." At least now that was over, and he could begin to discuss the events of the next few days with her.

"Now, Kathryn, there's going to be a custody hearing in the next few days. Your parents will be there, and you're supposed to go. You might be asked to discuss what happened to you in the past year. Are you okay with that?" he queried, putting his arms around her shoulders. For a moment, she seemed as if she was going to pull away, but her muscles relaxed gradually.

"You'd come with me, right?" she asked quietly.

"Well … I don't know if I'd be allowed. Then again, this isn't the most normal case. I think I should be able to arrange it, if that's what it takes to get you there," he replied with a tired smile. Sleep hadn't come nearly as easily to him in the past few weeks as it seemed to come to Kathryn - she was unconscious as soon as her head hit anything remotely resembling a pillow, but if a single worry implanted itself in his brain, he was up all night. Work also seemed to follow him home quite frequently, and then there was a nagging little voice in his head that wouldn't let him sleep.

_That's what happens when -_

Crane shut him up instantly and pushed him down with more force than ever before; now was certainly not the time for any mental breakouts.

"Are you okay? Y'look … weary. Haven't you slept at all?" she mumbled and tilted her head toward him. The humor of what she said was almost ridiculous, since she looked as if she had been awake for days. Purple shadows, so dark they were almost black, filled the caverns around her eyes, and her face was drawn.

"Not really. Don't worry yourself, though. You need to sleep yourself," he reminded her. The girl nodded and fell backwards, arms and legs tossed out in a flurry of relaxation. Within a few seconds, she had morphed from a tiny bony ball into a sprawled-out skeletal girl - hopefully, the drastic weight loss wouldn't affect any decision made in court. Kathryn would have to explain herself why she had lost so much weight, and he would need to explain that to her. The explanation would be much more believable if it came from the patient's mouth, although he would corroborate if there were any doubts.

It would certainly be an eventful day for everyone, but right now, he couldn't focus on the end result. There were preparations that he needed to complete, almost all of which revolved around talking to the sleeping teenager on his couch. Those things could wait until later.

"Dr. Crane? We're here for Kathryn," someone called quietly from the door. Two men in scrubs were standing at the door, looking into the room in a state of shock.

"Can you come back in an hour or two? She's sleeping. It's been rough. She started talking today," he whispered. Once he was on his feet, he walked over to the two men and shrugged apologetically.

"Really? You mean it?" one of them exclaimed.

"Yes, I do. Now please shut your mouth and leave as quickly as possible. You'll wake her," he snapped. With an angry sweep of the hands the two orderlies were chased from his office and the door quietly closed.

Through it all, Kathryn slumbered. It was oddly similar to how she'd spent the past two and a half weeks - totally unobservant of her surroundings. At least he knew she would be waking up this time.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: The bathroom is almost finished! We have to get paint for the trim and then I'm doing that tonight or tomorrow. I now have a very short-term job helping my step dad set up his library for next year (he's a librarian in Baltimore City) and MAN the city makes my lungs hurt. Pollution sucks, man. But you all don't come here for my personal life! Just figured I'd let you know why updates have slowed down. FAMILY DRAMA comes to a head in this chapter which is important for the plot even though it's sort of hard to write. Oh, and I know that the court proceedings here are totally not accurate, but I tried to do research to see exactly how a custody hearing works, and all I came up with was divorce stuff, and then I tried to search emancipation hearings, which was more suitable for what I was going for, and I found NOTHING useable, unfortunately. So I'm making it up! Yay for inaccuracies! Finally, I discovered a fitness hearing, so at least I know what I'm talking about. Also the psychology Crane points out may or may not be BS. No need to point that out. I did research that sort of thoroughly to make sure it was a feasible thing.**

On the morning of the hearing, Crane came in earlier than usual, since he had to help Kathryn get mentally prepared for the day ahead. Even still, she was waiting outside his office with an orderly. Giving the man a smile that looked more pained than pleased, he took her hand and led her to the office.

"You've had breakfast, right? Yes, you have, or you wouldn't be here. You had a show yesterday. That's fine. Are you sure you're ready for this?" he shot out. As he spoke, he was flying around the office and grabbing all of the supplies he'd need. Kathryn's file. A set of prepared statements he'd put together to answer any conceivable question. A syringe of diazepam - just in case..

"Dr. Crane, I've never seen you look so flustered," she remarked with a laugh. It was true - never in his life had he been so anxious. The hearing had to go well, he just knew it, or she would never trust him again.

"Now, they're going to ask why you're so thin. Explain that how you see fit. And they'll ask about your experiences with your father, and at Arkham with me. If you don't want to answer anything, just say so. The judge will understand. And if you get too upset, let me know and I'll take care of it. You're sure? I can go alone, they'll understand -" she cut him off with a raised hand. Internally, he cringed for a moment at the sight of her - so bony. So breakable.

"I can handle it," she assured him. "We've gone over it a hundred times. You know, it's nice to meet someone who's more worried than I am for once!" She laughed a raucous laugh. Something about the pas few days seemed to have set her free, and she was cheery and pleasant to be around.

"Alright. Let's go," he snapped, closing his briefcase and standing near the door. With a grin, she bounced over to his side. Out in the hall, an escort was waiting to take them down to the street; the man left them beside an unremarkable black car and walked away, yawning. Crane opened the car, and she slid in, watching him follow her into the back seat. Once they were both settled in with buckled seat belts, the driver started the car, and they whizzed away from the asylum.

For several minutes, Kathryn didn't speak, too entranced with looking out the windows at the street and the people on it. Her head kept flashing from place to place. "Everything's so … I don't know. I guess I expected that there would have been some grand cultural revolution while I was locked up, it felt like forever. How long has it been?" she asked, but her face remained pressed against the glass.

"Forty days," he answered after consulting her file and doing a quick bit of math in his head. Odd how it felt like so much longer.

"Really? I thought it was only a week or two. Forty days? That's more than five weeks, I was way off! Wow. But it went so fast - especially the past few weeks. Everything's just flown by," she noticed, sounding amazed at her own lack of observational skills.

"You let an eternity fly past you," he muttered under his breath. Fortunately, she didn't hear his little comment; she probably wouldn't appreciate him bringing up those weeks again. For some reason she didn't want to speak of them. Illogical.

"Oh, we're here!" she exclaimed. Sure enough, outside the dark windows he could see the Gotham City Courthouse, majestic in sandy tan brick and festooned with pillars and engravings. Crane opened the door and exited the car, pulling her out after. He kept a reassuring hold on her upper arm as they entered the courthouse lobby.

"Kathryn Winner and Dr. Crane? I assume you're here for the hearing, yes? It's down the hall. Courtroom four," a bright-eyed receptionist informed the two of them, with a friendly wave. Crane nodded and led the way.

"You're alright? Do you need a minute?" he asked her seriously just outside the courtroom. A touch of anxiety was creeping into her eyes, but she shook her head and gulped.

"Wait, wait. Can you look in and t-tell me if he's there?" she whispered. Finally, she was understanding the seriousness of the situation. He nodded and opened the door just enough to get a full glance in.

"Yes, he is. Now do you want a minute?" he repeated, sounding just a bit smug. Her head moved up and down slowly as her shoulders started shake anxiously.

"I - I'm fine. Let's get this shit over with," she gasped and shook herself off.

"Let us proceed." He swung the heavy wooden door open and stepped into the room. Kathryn shuffled in behind, her eyes flashing.

"Ah, Nadia, look. She's arrived. And who is that? Her doctor? Don't see why she needs a fuckin' doctor, she's just a teenager. Hormonal," a slightly portly man with thick chocolate-brown hair muttered, turning to a stately blonde woman.

"Shush, Nicholas. This is all your fault anyways," the woman, presumably Nadia, replied in a voice that most certainly hid tears. Kathryn was cowering behind Crane's back and breathing heavily, her eyes closed.

"Come in and take a seat. I'm Judge Fredricks. Whenever you're ready, we'll proceed," announced a loud and warm voice from behind a dark desk. Crane nodded and tugged on Kathryn's arm until she stumbled into the room.

"It's okay. Breathe slowly, you'll be fine," he murmured in her ear. She shuddered for a moment before following him up a small flight of steps to an arrangement of chairs. Although there were plenty of available seats, she chose two that as close to the door as possible - Crane noted that they were also the farthest from Nicholas.

"Is everybody ready? Alright, then. Now, I see that Dr. Crane has brought this case before me because he feels that you two are unfit parents for Kathryn, here," Judge Fredricks said amicably without looking down at the spread of papers in front of him. Crane already liked his casual approach to the affair; it seemed to be calming Kathryn down slightly.

"I think it's a load of -" By the look on Nicholas' face, he wanted to say more, but his wife tugged on his shirt angrily.

"Dr. Crane, why don't you explain why you believe Kathryn's parents can no longer care for her properly?" asked the judge. Crane smiled and stood up, smoothly pulling a sheet of notes out for reference. Sparing a glance at Kathryn, who was pressed into her chair and looking quite pained despite her medication, he began to speak. "Kathryn was admitted to Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane forty days ago. We don't often take patients who aren't, well, criminals, but such an … intriguing case could not be ignored. A fourteen year old with such a severe case of panic disorder that she could no longer attend school? We could not turn her down. She started coming to me as her primary therapist when she arrived. At first, she suffered from a terrible stutter, complained of being unable to sleep, and had a panic attack right there in my office. I treated her and started her on a prescription of seroxat - a common medication for anxiety disorders - which seemed to help, but it caused a terrible side effect known as akathisia - it causes tremors and tension so terrible that she started tossing her pills into the trash. While in the throes of another … panic attack, she called out, "Daddy, no! I'm sorry, don't hurt me!" Of course I had to investigate that, but I didn't get very far at all. Finally, I got her to tell me that her father didn't believe that she had a problem. She said that he claimed she embarrassed him. One day she was especially tired and fell asleep in my office - people panicked in the main office, thought she'd escaped. When I told them she was in my office, there was a bit of a … yelling incident - I was frustrated with the receptionist and shouted into the phone, 'Why don't you think of what you say before it comes out of your mouth, huh?' It frightened her so much that she crawled under my couch. She was muttering something along the lines of 'daddy, don't yell' over and over again. Then she fell back to sleep, not before calling _me_ daddy. In my profession, you don't just let something fly under your nose. When I've seen things in similar patients, it's because they feel as if they're missing that figure in their life - usually a father or mother - so they pin that relationship to someone else, often their therapist. I asked her about what she said the next day, and she said that after a month or two of picking up Kathryn from school after attacks, he refused to do it, and yelled, 'Why don't you think of what you say before it comes out of your mouth, huh?' Apparently, those yelling fits became a regular thing. She says that Nicholas called her several names quite inappropriate for a father to call a child - several are inappropriate in any company. It's my professional opinion that Kathryn is in need of constant nurturing care, especially from a male figure, and I feel that her father cannot provide her with what she needs emotionally and mentally," he finished, taking a deep and confident breath.

As Crane pontificated, Nicholas grew more and more enraged, until his face was a rather unhealthy shade of ruddy purple and his knuckles were white against the back of a chair in front of him. Nadia's hands hung awkwardly on his shoulders, but Crane could tell that she was appalled to hear every detail of her daughter's ailment let out into the air. Speaking of her daughter…

Kathryn was huddled into a ball on her chair, her head between her knees. Every few seconds, she would pop up, look across at her father, then curl up even tighter. The judge was watching her with a concerned look in his eye.

"Well … Mr. Winner, what do you have to say to that?" the judge hesitantly asked. Crane sat down next to Kathryn, rubbing her back comfortingly. While he sat, Nicholas stood, and threw his chair backwards. The crash made Kathryn jump and duck her head into Crane's shoulder, whimpering.

"There's nothing wrong with the girl! She's just trying to get out of school. There's no way. I don't tolerate that in my house. Sure, I put up with it for a few weeks, picking her up from school, giving her a hug when she started screaming in the middle of the night, but she didn't _stop_. It just kept going. And it got worse and worse as the months dragged on. It's a piece of shit, I tell you. There is nothing wrong with my daughter," he said belligerently before grabbing his chair and slamming the legs into the floor before taking his seat again.

Through the short and angry speech, Crane was focused on Kathryn, rubbing her shoulder and murmuring in her ear, "It's going to be alright. Nothing's going to happen to you, he won't hurt you. It's fine." Nothing he said caused the shake wracking her body to abate.

"Mr. Winner, none of what you've said proves that you're a fit father to your daughter. Mrs. Winner, why don't you give your opinion on the matter?" proposed Judge Fredricks.

Nadia stood hesitantly, on shaky legs. "I - Dr. Crane is right. Nicholas can't give Kathryn what she needs. I had to start home schooling her, because she couldn't handle going to school. I tried to tell him that she needed to see a doctor - he wouldn't have it, no matter how many times I tried. She hid in her bedroom when he was coming home; he'd go up and scream at her when she had attacks. Finally I brought her to Arkham and had her admitted. It was the best thing for her. She is my daughter, and I want the best for her, no matter how much it pains me," she whispered. When she sat, it was several chairs away from her husband.

There was silence in the room, aside from Crane's continued quiet words to his patient.

"I see. I think there's only one person we need to hear from … Kathryn? Are you alright? Did you have anything to say?" At the judge's urging, Crane helped her to rise up, and held her elbow to maintain her balance.

"H-he y-yelled at me. I w-would get these t-terrible headaches and he c-came into m-my r-room and sh-shouted at me. It m-made my stomach t-twist up and I c-couldn't breathe. I always th-thought he was g-going to hit m-me. And then I w-went to Arkham. D-doctor Crane r-really h-helped, even though h-he gave me p-pills that s-sometimes m-made me f-feel sick. D-don't make me g-go h-h-h-h-home," she mumbled, her voice weak and stuttering.

"It's obvious to me that Kathryn can no longer return to her original home, but it seems she's not fit to go through the normal adoption process. Do you have any ideas, Dr. Crane?" the judge inquired. His eyebrows were raised and his eyes wide, in shock at the situation put before him, it seemed.

"I can adopt her," he proposed.

**A/N: Yes, it was a long chapter. Yes, there was a ridiculously long speech in there. And yes, it's a cliffy, but if you were paying attention you would have figured it out by now! I put a clue in on purpose. ;D**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/: Thanks to you all for the reviews! I just want everyone to know that tomorrow is my 'go through and reply to reviews' day, because I've been too busy to do it recently. I didn't forget, I promise! Hope everyone enjoyed the cliffhanger even if it probably won't be suspenseful for very long; I sort of have a vague idea of what's going to happen in this chapter, which is sort of unusual for me. I actually thought of the conclusion to this arc (don't worry, this won't be the end of the story!) a few chapters back, I just had to think of exactly how to get there. Read and enjoy/review/forget about/spit upon as you see fit. Although if you're going to set the thing on fire, please bring a fire extinguisher. OH! And the legal stuff there was so difficult to find since I had no idea what it was called that I sort of fudged a bit. Heheh. The lullaby used here, by the way, is called Land of our Dreams. I believe it's Armenian originally, but that version was one I sang with my middle school choir.**

Kathryn gasped; there was little reaction from anyone else. "Y-you want t-to - you w-want to - t-t-to - b-but - why?" she whispered, her head snapping up to stare at him.

"I feel like I'm the only one who could provide you with the care you need. I know you well, I know how to manage your problems, and I'm probably the best person you could find. I think, Judge Fredricks, that I'm certainly financially able to care for her, and I can easily make time to stay with her. She's not quite ready to go home yet, but when she is, I'll be fully prepared," he explained, with a smile toward Kathryn.

Nicholas again threw his chair, and Kathryn all but jumped into Crane's lap. "How can you allow this? Can't you see how he looks at her? He's a fucking pedophile!" the man hollered. Carefully, Kathryn set the shuddering girl onto her own chair before walking down the steps to stand in front of the fuming Nicholas.

"Sir, I would advise you to rescind your statement. You may have no capability for fatherly love, but I can assure you that it is a perfectly normal emotion. Must you assume that I have romantic feelings for your daughter just because I, unlike you, care for her and want to give her the best life that she can possibly have, in the state you've driven her into?" Crane censured in a calm, monotone voice. Although his temper was flaring within him, he would resist the urge to yell - or, more accurately, stay silent, and instead throw a punch at Nicholas before intoxicating him with fear gas.

"Dr. Crane, please sit down or I will have to call security," Judge Fredricks ordered. Crane obeyed, but not before giving Nicholas the most violent glare he could possibly manage. He settled Kathryn on his lap. She seemed quite confused, but he could see some sort of happiness on her face.

"Thank you for not shouting," she mumbled. A grin spread across his cheeks, and he nodded.

"Well. It seems that my decision is already made. Kathryn will, when Dr. Crane sees fit based on her mental state, be removed from her parent's care and placed into his. Until then, she will remain at Arkham Asylum. You may go now," the judge announced in an authoritative voice. Kathryn was quickly shuffled onto her feet as the doctor led her from the room and out into the hall, where her legs wavered.

A loud bang filled the air as the door was slammed open. That hinted at significant strength on whoever was opening the door; since Judge Fredricks was probably still behind his desk and Nadia didn't seem like a weight lifter, he was betting on Nicholas.

"You little piece of shit. Don't expect to be let back into my house to get your stuff, I'm throwing it in a fucking dumpster," Nicholas snarled. For a moment, he looked as if he was about to tackle Crane, but Nadia yanked impatiently on his collar, and he turned away. As soon as he was turned away, Kathryn laid her head on Crane's shoulder.

"What a wonderful man he is. I can see why you adore him," Crane remarked with no hint of sarcasm to his voice. He was answered by a weakly angry fist against his abdomen.

"He's not usually l-like that. He used to b-be a p-perfect dad - took me t-to the z-zoo, bought me s-stuff I w-wanted, you kn-know? And then I got s-sick…" She trailed off and smacked her face against his shoulder once.

"It's alright. You don't have to worry about him anymore. He doesn't have to be part of your life anymore," he reminded her softly; his shoulder moved as she nodded.

"Can we go now, please?" At that, Crane nodded and grasped her hand. They moved from the hall and out into a waiting car - the same, bland black car that had dropped them off.

Once she was seated, Kathryn curled up against the wall and closed her eyes. "Did you mean it? Did you really mean it? You weren't just … just trying to get me away from him or something? You're really going to -" He cut her off.

"Yes, I am going to adopt you. I meant every word that I said. You need someone to take care of you, and I can do that," Crane replied with a broad smile. At that instant he was quite surprised to find him covered in a sobbing teenage girl who was making herself quite comfortable on his lap.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you so much. I didn't know what I was going to do - you know how to make the headaches go away and you got rid of the crawling things and you made the attacks stop. I mean, they didn't go away, but at least I haven't had one in a while. And even when I do, you make them stop. You let me sleep on your couch and you rub my back until all the shadows in my head go away and I can go to sleep even though you don't, and you chase all my worries away. I wouldn't … I couldn't stay with anyone else," she whispered as the car started to pull into the street away from the courthouse.

Instead of speaking, he ran his fingers through her shaggy hair and started to hum a simple lullaby he'd heard when he was a child. If he had been singing the words to go along with the song, she would have heard, in Crane's reedy tenor,

_Slumber now, my darling one,_

_Rest, for now the day is done,_

_Father sings a lullaby,_

_Hush, my darling, do not cry._

There was a verse after that, but he continued repeating the introduction over and over, until her eyelids drooped. By the time she was sleeping, they had arrived at Arkham. His arms slid under her, and he guessed she would wake up, but Kathryn was so deep in slumber that the motion had no effect. Midmorning sun on her face didn't wake her, either, so he had to carry her into the building. It was a good thing she weighed so much less now.

"Ohmigod! What happened?" Lea exclaimed, her voice filling the quiet office.

"She is _sleeping_. Rough morning. There was a custody hearing today; she's being adopted," he explained with a sly grin.

"By whom? What sane parent would?" she wondered wryly.

"Well, since I'm the one adopting her, I'd say an intelligent one. He's probably a handsome devil, too," he murmured, faking a pensive expression so convincingly that Lea skipped over the first part of his reply entirely.

"Wait - _you're_ adopting her? But -"

"For future reference, if she goes missing, please check my office first before sounding the alarms. But be quiet about it - she sleeps a lot," he tossed over his shoulder as he entered the nearest elevator and maneuvered his hands until he was able to press the button for the second floor, where his office was located.

Ironically enough, she didn't wake up until he had laid her on the couch and tucked his jacket around her so that she could sleep while he went and worked with other patients.

"Huh? Da - Dr. Crane?" she mumbled, eyes half shut.

"It's alright. You can call me daddy now if you want to. I had some work to do, so I was hoping you'd stay asleep," he justified in a hushed voice. Kathryn nodded.

"When will you be back?" she wondered, sounding more like she was talking to herself than anything.

"Soon. Don't worry, just sleep," he murmured in reply. After humming a few bars of the lullaby, he smiled. The girl really had a talent for falling asleep at the drop of a hat, he noted wistfully.

The first order of business was to explain the situation to Lea - she'd get her nose into it anyways, and it would be best for him to give her the full story now. Locking the door on the way out, he took the elevator back downstairs and sat on a chair before her desk, usually intended for visitors.

"What did you need, Dr. Crane?" Lea inquired somewhat coolly.

"I just wanted to let you know exactly what happened today, before you try and puzzle it out. Kathryn's parents were deemed unfit to care for her. You were partially right earlier - the average parent would not want to adopt her. I, however, know how to care for her in the way that she needs. We are not sleeping together. We are not romantically entangled. I am going to be her father soon, and I treat her as such. I would appreciate your understanding and cooperation in a situation that is already needlessly complex without gossip thrown into the mix. Can I count on you?" he requested, looking at her expectantly.

"Of course. I understand. If you ever need anything, let me know," she offered. The look in her eyes had changed from snubbed to stunned.

"I will, and thank you," he replied with a soft smile. At that, he left her, heading down to the basement. It was the only place he could truly be alone, and he certainly did have work to do.

The Scarecrow.

_I'm surprised at you, Jonny. I didn't think you liked kids. I mean, I know that I personally _love_ kids. They're so easy to mess with! We'll have fun with her, won't we?_

Crane didn't deign to answer him verbally, and instead kept his reply strictly mental. **You will never touch her. You will never speak to her. You will never see her.**

_Tut, tut, Jonny-boy. You know for a fact that you can't keep me away from something I want._

**I have a much better reason this time, Scarecrow.**

_What, your little pet? We've already proven that I can get to her whenever I feel the whim._

**I will never let you out again.**

_Ooh, somebody's getting frisky! Why don't we strike a little deal?_

**No bargaining. You cannot be trusted.**

_Of course you can trust me! You give me something I want, and I'll give you something you want. That's fair, right?_

**You don't deserve to get what you want.**

_Come on. I just want five minutes with the girl. Five minutes is all I ask. Then, you get the rest of your life to be with her. Alone. Otherwise, I will try my hardest to make your life miserable._

**No.**

_Pretty please, Doctor Jonny? How about three minutes?_

**No.**

_Just one minute?_

**No.**

_Thirty seconds?_

**I won't let you have any time in control of my body.**

_Our body, Jonny. You're not the only mind living here, you know. I have a right to my own life. It's not fair. I should sue!_

It was time to think calmly. Trauma, after all, was what encouraged split personalities to develop and thrive. He was going to be a father. Kathryn was going to be safe. For once in his life, the future looked bright.

_I can see when I'm not wanted, Jonny-boy. If you need me, I'll be waiting…_

**A/N: A note to those who are skeptical about the believability of Crane becoming a father / being compassionate / the like, let me give you one hint. I had a second one also, but it makes the plot too obvious. I've thought of the ending to the story and in my opinion, it ties everything up nicely. It won't be coming for a while, and I can keep writing after the end moderately easily, but the hint is - this story takes place well before Batman Begins. At least a year, probably two or three. Just sayin'.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I can't even start the author's note on this chapter - a major case of sudden-onset writer's block diagnosed by inability to type more than five words at a time. Prescribing one episode of House MD, plus bonus features. The prognosis looks good, although further treatments will be needed. Why is writing so hard sometimes? Anyway, I know what's going to happen vaguely in the chapter. I also know that it's going to be a rough job. So please excuse me if this chapter takes a while to get uploaded. I don't own The Raven.**

Crane returned to his office, feeling much lighter than when he had gone down into the basement, to find Kathryn curled around an old collection of Poe's works. At first, he thought she was reading intently, but her eyes were shut and her head hung loosely. When he looked over her shoulder, he realized the book was opened to 'The Raven'.

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, o'er a many quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore," he whispered smoothly and pulled the book from her hands. She seemed unwilling to let go of it; her fingers clinging to the spine. Once it was yanked away, her lids fluttered.

"Hey, I was readin' that," she grumbled with all the rage of a very tiny bear just woken from hibernation. He laughed and sat down beside her. Her head came to rest on his shoulder once he was settled.

"While I pondered, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door," he continued, entirely from memory. The poem had been one he had to memorize for an English literature class, and it had stuck with him. "''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'Tapping at my chamber door. Only this, and nothing more.'" It seemed as if that was what she wanted to hear, for her eyes slid shut again.

His hand started moving up and down her back at a slow and soothing pace, timed to her heartbeat. "Did you want to go back to sleep?" he asked.

"No, I'm not tired. Just comfy," she sighed, nuzzling his shoulder.

"When?" she suddenly blurted out. Her head pushed further down onto his chest.

"When what, Kathryn?" he replied in confusion.

"When can I go home?" Suddenly, she was fully awake and alert, and she looked up at him eagerly.

Silence. He tried to concoct an answer that wouldn't upset her, and found it impossible. "You need to stay until your panic disorder is completely under control. Maybe two weeks, maybe a month, maybe eight weeks. As soon as possible, though. I promise you that," he murmured.

"But I feel fine now! I want to go now! Do you just not want me to go?" she cried. Small, bony fists pounded into his ribcage once, twice, three times each. Those same hands then moved up to run through her hair once, twice, three times.

"No, Kathryn, no. That's not it at all, you know that. I'm not allowed to adopt you until it's been proven that you're healthy enough to be released. It's not my choice," he snapped back. Of course she would doubt his decision. It was in her nature to be doubtful and suspicious, as he had so often observed. Certainly there were hundreds, thousands of unaired suspicions deep in her heart. But when she chose to loose them on him seemed to be almost random.

"I - I'm sorry. But it's stupid! I want to go home _now_. You can care for me at home. I'm not going to hurt anyone. Isn't that why most of these people are locked up? I … want … I want to be home," she whispered. The sorrow of a year's anxiety filled her voice and her eye, until it overflowed and silent tears rolled down her cheeks. "I don't want to g-go to sleep alone with the door locked and no lights and ratty old blankets. I don't want to wake up and know that nobody cares which chair I sit in during rec. time while I read old magazines because they won't give me a real book. I don't want to realize over and over that no one wants me, that there isn't anybody anywhere who gives a shit what happens to me. I want to be home," she whispered again. It seemed like her entire shuddering body was pressed up against him as she poured out her feelings. He pulled her fully onto his lap, rocking her gently back and forth.

"What chair do you sit in during rec. time?" he asked her with all the curiosity in the world.

"Uh - th-the purple one in the corner near the window. Maybe it's maroon. But it's big and s-squishy. I go to sleep in it a lot," she answered hesitantly, tearfully.

"Why do you sleep so much during the day?"

"I don't sleep well at night. I can't get to sleep and then I keep waking up." No more tears ran down her face.

"What type of books do you like to read?" The distraction was working perfectly; with each question, her face brightened.

"I like fantasy, and soft science fiction. You know, wizards, magic spells, curses and all that. Also I like Shakespeare sometimes, and poetry," she listed. "Hey! You - thanks."

The room was quiet for a minute as Kathryn settled on his lap, trying to distribute her weight evenly over his legs and chest.

"Why are you always so tired?" she asked him suddenly.

He wasn't at all prepared to answer any questions about himself. "I work late, and start my work day early," he replied quietly.

"Why do you work so much, then?" Nervously, she bit her lower lip.

"I have to. I'm the director of Arkham; it's part of the job description. Work all the time for not enough money." That was true; he had always felt he wasn't paid enough for what he did. Fortunately, he was ordinarily a frugal man, and his parents had given him a rather substantial trust fund.

"Do you work all the time?" she muttered. Something about her voice was off. It sounded morose, deflated, lonely.

"Well, when you come home, I'm rearranging my schedule. I'll hire another psychiatrist to do the work I usually do - analyzing notes, giving therapy sessions - so that I have time for more important things," he explained with a smile.

"Like what? Like what?" she exclaimed, excitement all over her face.

"Like you. Taking care of you will be a full time job." Also true; she needed someone with her, to watch over her and keep her attention engaged.

Her head rested on his upper arm. "Do you promise it'll be soon?" she angrily asked.

"Yes. As soon as possible." Did she really dislike being here that much? Arkham certainly wasn't the most enjoyable place, that much he knew, but it couldn't be that miserable. Perhaps it was more of the loneliness she felt that was chasing her from this place.

"Ah, distinctly, I remember, it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor," Kathryn recited after pulling the book from his hands.

"Eagerly I wished the morrow - vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - nameless here forever more," Crane finished out the stanza. They both smiled.

"And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; so that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - This it is, and nothing more," she read, her voice growing quieter and quieter. The book smacked against her legs.

"Tired still, are we?" he laughed. She just nodded and closed her eyes.

"Hey, daddy?" she mumbled.

"What do you need?" he asked her, voice hushed.

"Never mind. S'nothin'." It was almost impossible to understand what she was saying; he had to strain his ears.

"What's wrong?" Now, of course, he would have to know. One should never try and hide something, once revealed, from a psychiatrist.

"I was just wond'rin' if you had any pets," she answered.

"That's it? No, I do not have any pets. Do you like animals?"

"Yeah, I always wanted a puppy, but my parents didn't like 'em," she explained, sounding more than half asleep.

"Maybe we'll get one, then. Now go to sleep," he told her sternly. Within a minute she had obeyed, her head hanging over his upper arm. He cautiously picked her up and spread her out fully on the couch. Once she was slumbering comfortably, his attention was drawn to a stack of adoption papers on his desk, which he settled down to fill out. Doing it now would save time later, he had decided, even though the work was dreary and dull. It would be worth it, though.

**A/N: I'm not at all satisfied with this chapter - it feels like filler even though there are some important emotional connections made. Also the writing feels … off to me. But it seemed necessary when I started and I'm not about to waste 1500 words of material especially when it's posted late. A bad chapter is better than no chapter, right? The next one should be going up tonight if all goes according to plan (then again, nothing ever goes according to plan!).**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: I wrote a lot of this chapter last night, but with the whole 'no computer at night' thing I couldn't type it up so the writing was slower, and as I said, nothing goes according to plan! It's a lot more interesting than the previous chapter with more plot stuff and also a big change of scenery. However, I still don't feel like it's exactly up to snuff, for some reason. Maybe I'm just having self-esteem issues or something. I don't know. Anyway, I'd appreciate some reviews with constructive criticism to pull myself out of this slump! Oh, and spathophylums are also known as peace lilies.**

As it turned out, it only took a week and a half. He gave her a thorough examination - or, rather, he wrote a full analysis simply from memory of their conversations - and signed both her discharge papers and her adoption papers. The next day, her papers had been approved by the courts and her room was emptied.

There she sat on the couch, too excited for once to sleep, her hands folded on her lap. Her fingers tapped, still, across her knuckles, and there was a motion to her thumbs that could almost be called twiddling.

"Can we go yet, please? I'm ready, I've been ready for _hours_ now! Let's go, let's go!" she exclaimed. All of a sudden, she was standing, her height close to Crane's.

"No, you're not ready. You need to get changed," he reminded her, tossing a t-shirt and a pair of drawstring pants at her. They were old pajamas of his that she would swim in, skinny as she was, but anything was better than her orange prisoner's uniform.

Crane was confused for a moment when she stayed where she sat, blushing fiercely. "I'm sorry, but could you please turn around?" Kathryn requested with bashful quietness.

Oh. He did so and heard her stand up.

"I'm done," she called after several silent moments. When he turned around, he found it strange to see her in any outfit other than the orange uniform all of his patients wore. He had been right about the size of the clothes; her frame was shrouded by the large shirt. It had been oversized when he wore it, but it dwarfed the underweight girl. Remarkably, the flannel pants were only an inch or two too long, although they were incredibly baggy on her.

"Alright, let's go," he announced as nonchalantly as he could manage, to prepare himself for -

Kathryn rushed across the room and all but slammed into the door before opening it and stumbling into the hall. Her massive enthusiasm was thwarted, however since she obviously had no idea where to go.

"Into the elevator," he advised from within the office. A mechanical noise answered him as he walked out and locked his office door behind him. The elevator door was open when he reached it; her finger was mashed against the door open button.

"Ground floor." But she had already pressed that button as well.

"You seem excited about something," he mused.

"Oh, no. Not excited at all. Nothing to be excited about, that's for sure," she answered with exaggerated sarcasm. "Of course I'm not going home after two months in an asylum." As the elevator stopped, she was silent.

Together, they stepped out into the lobby. Kathryn gave Lea an inattentive wave before standing near the doors of the asylum.

"On your way out?" the receptionist inquired cheerily from behind her desk.

"I'll be taking the rest of this week and next week off. Send my appointments to Dr. Newton and email me if you need anything," he informed Lea. Kathryn's sudden change in attitude concerned him - was she missing her mother?

"Alright then, Dr. Crane. Goodbye, Kathryn," she called. Crane shuffled Kathryn through the doors hurriedly and grasped her hand in his.

"Stay right beside me. I don't want you getting lost," he warned. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm going _home_," she whispered, as if surprised by the news. They reached his car parked in a nearby garage, with little mishap. Both buckled in, and Crane pulled onto the street after winding down several floors.

Silence filled the car, punctuated only by several uncomfortable comments about the weather, the season, or something on the street that grabbed Kathryn's attention. After a drive that lasted over half an hour, they pulled into the driveway of a small brick townhouse, located on the richer end of Gotham. There was a small but well-kept yard of lush green grass in front of the house, with an elegant weeping willow tree in the center.

"This is where you live?" she asked incredulously. Instead of rushing up to the door like he had expected, her steps were hesitant, and she stayed beside the car.

"It's where you live, too," he replied quietly. That seemed to spark her interest, but still she seemed rather unenthused.

"What's wrong?" he inquired. Obviously, something wasn't right, or she would be banging on the door trying to get into her new home.

"I - it's nothing to worry about," she stammered quickly and picked up her pace until she was standing on the porch beside a small potted spathophylum.

"It is. You should know by now that you can't hide anything from me." That was for sure; he always ferreted out her troubles as soon as she revealed them since it was, after all, his job.

"It's _nothing_," she insisted bitterly, her mouth tightening into a firm line. Crane put his hand on her shoulder, but she shook it away. When she put her hand on the doorknob, she found that it was unlocked, and she slowly opened the door. Once she walked inside, she hurried up the stairs and disappeared down the hallway. There was a clatter of slamming doors for a minute.

"Kathryn? Are you alright?" he called loudly, announcing his presence before walking up to the second floor. She was nowhere to be found, so he started opening doors as she obviously had. Not in the master bedroom or bathroom. Not in the smaller hall bathroom. Not in the bedroom he had finished furnishing for her only days before.

In the closet in her room, however, he found a bony teenaged girl curled up in a dark corner, sobbing.

"Go away! Leave me alone!" she shouted and pulled the door shut in his face. It took very little strength to yank the door open, although there was some resistance - she was trying to hold it closed. Her hands flew up over her face as she pushed herself even farther into the back of the deep closet.

"I told you to go away," cried Kathryn. It was impossible to pull her out of her corner, as he discovered when she left a large bite mark in his hand.

"What is wrong with you?" he shouted, nursing the sore spot on his palm.

There was no loud and angry backlash; she was defying every expectation he had of her today. "Nothing. Leave me alone," she whimpered. Crane tried yet again to grab her, and succeeded, for she had gone limp and listless. He slung her into his arms and carried her out onto the large bed in the center of her room.

"What's wrong?" he asked her again, running his fingers through her hair slowly.

"This isn't home." After a few moments, she writhed out of his grasp and crawled back into the closet.

"Yes, it is. This is our home." His voice was incredibly confused, with good reason, for her reaction was quite irrational. Never before had she been so violent or self-protective.

"No it's not! This isn't my house or my bedroom! I don't belong here," she called pitifully from the closet. That was it, then. She was probably feeling isolated. After all, she had been admitted to Arkham under the assumption that she would go home to her friends, and her belongings.

"Kathryn, come out here so we can talk about this." He certainly wasn't going to have any sort of significant discussion with her while she was in a closet.

"I don't want to talk," she barked back.

"I know you're upset, but please, come out of your closet," he requested.

"S'not my closet," she mumbled, but she did shuffle forward far enough to lean against the door frame.

"Yes, it is. I understand that you would rather be in your house, but it's healthier for you to be here. This is your home, Kathryn," he told her softly. In response, she moved forward a few inches.

"But - but - no, it's not the right color. That's not my bed," she noted. That was true, although her bed at Arkham hadn't been hers either. Was that why she hadn't been sleeping? Now it made sense.

"If you sleep in it, it'll be your bed."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, rocking back and forth on the floor. What dramatic mood swings she displayed! He would need to learn the best way to deal with it. Fortunately, there was time - he still reveled in that fact.

"Come here," he asked with soft authority, and she did so, sitting on the end of the bed.

"Now, why are you so upset? I thought you wanted to come home," he murmured.

"I don't - I'm sorry. I do want to - but - I - but -" she stuttered, until her voice broke and she stopped trying to finish the sentence. "I don't know. I want to be here. But then, everything's _different_. It's not - Arkham wasn't home, and this isn't home, and you're not - but - you are - and - and - but it is - I want it to … be …" she whispered hoarsely.

"Take a deep breath and try to explain what's upsetting you." At that, she rushed back into the closet, clutching her head and groaning fiercely. Instead of slow and quiet, he could hear wheezing breaths fly in and out of her lungs.

Suddenly he figured it out. "Did you take your medication this morning?" he called in an urgent tone.

"Uh - n-no. They d-didn't give me m-my p-pills," she gasped from the back of the closet. Crane ran from the room and into his bedroom, where he fished in the second drawer of his desk until he found the syringe of diazepam he had placed there for future emergencies. This definitely fit the bill. When he returned, she was in a tight ball and sucking air as fast as was humanly possible. Her body shook as she alternately grasped her head and her chest.

He grabbed her shoulder and held it tightly with one hand while unwrapping the syringe with his fingers and teeth. It dropped to the floor and he scooped it up before injecting the diazepam into her veins. Kathryn moaned at the sudden pain.

"Make it stop, make it stop," she begged, as her hands snaked up to pull on his jacket like a little child would. Until the attack subsided, she remained in that position: half-pulled onto his lap, with her legs tucked against her chest.

"It's alright. You're going to be okay," he reassured her. It took several minutes for her to calm down fully, at which point she wrapped her arms around his waist and refused to let go.

"I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm sorry, didn't mean to do that," she mumbled.

"Don't worry. It's fine." As he spoke, he scooped her up and carried her out onto the bed.

"But it wasn't supposed to b-be like this - just w-wanted to go h-home."

"You've come home, Kathryn. You're home," he replied quietly.

**A/N: BLEH. It's boring and repetitive but it does set the stage for later chapters, I suppose, and that's something. I have been totally unable to succeed at anything lately so I'm not surprised. Ugh.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: WRITER'S BLOCK IS MISERABLE AND TERRIBLE. So I'm writing a sort of cheesy fluffy chapter that may or may not become less fluffy as I write it. I figured I would give you all an overdose of fluff, because it's easy and I find it entertaining especially when there's no romance involved.**

**EDIT: Okay, so looking at my traffic page, which I just discovered today, makes me feel a lot better because there have been 282 visitors and 786 hits to Panic in the past month! Thank you to all the readers I never knew existed. It brightens my spirits to know that so many people have read this story so far and (hopefully, hopefully!) enjoyed it!**

After almost an hour, Kathryn was fully calmed down and curled up under the covers. Crane sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her forehead with cool fingers. Neither of them spoke, for she was half-sleeping and Crane had no idea what to say after what had happened - would she still be upset? Was it an honest feeling or just a product of her anxiety?

At some internal prompt, she stirred and rolled over until his fingers tangled in her shaggy hair. "Hey, daddy," she mumbled happily. Her eyes fluttered open. "Did I go to sleep?"

"I guess you did. It's almost noon. Would you like some lunch?" he offered. Instantly, she snapped up, obviously excited at the idea of real food. The sound of her stomach rumbling was suddenly vibrant and audible.

"What do you have?" she asked eagerly. He grasped her hand and helped her to stand beside the bed.

"I'm afraid I don't have much - I'm rarely at home and I'm not much of a cook. I'm sure it's better than asylum food, though," he noted.

"Anything is better than that crap!" she exclaimed, rushing toward the door. Laughing quietly, he followed down the stairs and into the kitchen. Cabinet doors were slammed ruthlessly against their neighbors as she searched for something palatable. Once she had finished pawing through his non-perishable goods, she switched her target to the refrigerator and set out a few things.

A box of angel hair pasta, a small container of whipping cream, a jar of parmesan cheese, a container of leftover chicken, and a box of butter sat on the counter. "I'm going to make fettuccine alfredo. Do you want some?" she asked warmly.

"S-sure, I'd like to try it. I've never had alfredo," he admitted. Italian food had never been one of his favorites, after having a bad dish of ravioli that sent him to the hospital for days, and he had sworn off the stuff. Since the chicken was cooked and there were no eggs going into the dish, though, he was slightly less concerned about food poisoning.

"Where do you have pots and pans?" she inquired. He pointed toward a cabinet above the stove and microwave. Standing on her tiptoes, she was able to grab the handle of a medium pot and drag it down onto the front burner of the electric stove. Quickly, she moved over to fill the pot with water.

"I can't believe you've never had alfredo. My paren- never mind. But it's good," she mumbled, her voice trailing off until the sound was drowned out by the flow from the faucet.

The dish took a surprisingly small amount of time to make - while the pasta cooked, she reheated the chicken and measured out dairy products for the sauce. Before he had a chance to figure out exactly what she was doing, there was a plate of pasta with a white cream sauce over the top, sitting right in front of him on the breakfast bar.

"Go on, eat. It should be good," she chuckled, sitting beside him with a plate and a fork.

Hesitantly, he picked up a fork and took a bite. "Kathryn, this is delicious! Who did you get the recipe from?" he asked through a second mouthful of pasta and chicken. For a moment, she froze and didn't answer.

"Uh - it's a pretty common recipe," she muttered before filling her mouth with alfredo, preventing further questions. Her plate was cleaned in just a few quiet minutes, and she served herself a second helping quickly.

"Are you alright?" Clearly she wasn't, but he was unwilling to pressure her today.

"Don't worry about it," she hastily replied. He did so want to figure out what was wrong - the psychiatrist in him was chomping at the bit, but he reined it in.

"Well, regardless, it's a delicious dish. Thanks for making it," he praised. Once he was finished, the plates were tossed into the sink, and Crane put the leftovers into the refrigerator.

"I'm glad you liked it," she said, a delayed response to his earlier words. Something was distracting her. But he would not meddle.

"What should we do now?" Her tone was more bored than intrigued.

"How would you feel about a little surprise?" This would be something she was sure to enjoy, and he was admittedly intrigued by the idea of it. It would surely make life more interesting for the both of them - as if they didn't have enough intrigue already. But she would like it.

"Alright, I guess I'm up for a surprise," she answered with a shrug. Before they went out the door, he sensibly filled the pot with water to soak. No point in creating a ton of unnecessary work for himself when he did the dishes later.

The drive was quiet, which seemed to be a normal thing for Kathryn for she didn't volunteer many conversational topics. When Crane parked the car in front of a large one-story building, she looked around in bewilderment until she saw a sign beside the front door.

"Idle Paws Animal Shelter? Really?" she read. "Oh - oh - really? We really get to - really?" Suddenly her voice had risen three octaves, and she scrambled to get out of the car. He followed, laughing, into the lobby.

"Good afternoon! Welcome to Idle Paws. Are you here looking for a pet?" a friendly male voice called from behind a desk in front of the far wall. Crane nodded and approached the desk.

"Did you want a dog, cat, or another animal?" the man asked.

"A dog," Crane replied with a smile toward Kathryn. She bit her lower lip nervously before giving a half-smile to the man behind the desk.

"Right this way, please." The man stood and gestured for them to follow through a nearby door.

Inside, puppies were running around all over the place, jumping on each other and chasing their own tails. "This is our puppy nursery, as we like to call it. These puppies are mostly old enough to be adopted, being between six and twelve weeks. Some may require a bit of special attention. Would you like to look around for a little while before moving to the adult dogs?" the man finished. In lieu of an answer, Kathryn sat on the floor and let several puppies run onto her lap.

Crane just watched for a moment, and the man smiled. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes to see how you guys are doing," the man told them, right before heading out the door. A puppy was jumping on Crane's leg, and he bent down to pet it.

"I like this one," she announced, holding up a small black puppy with tan markings on its legs and face. "She's quiet and fuzzy and she doesn't seem to bite." The puppy just wiggled for a moment, until Kathryn set her down on top of her thigh, where it laid down and ducked its nose under its paws. Crane appraised the puppy jumping on him - small, slender, and light brown, but it barked a lot, which Kathryn didn't seem to like.

"Can I see her?" Crane asked after sitting down on the floor. A swarm of puppies flooded over him and he chased them off with his hands. Kathryn gently lifted up the relaxing puppy and put it in his arms.

"She is cute," he noted, rubbing the belly of the drowsy puppy. She twitched her paws happily.

The door opened, and puppies rushed to that end of the room. "Hey, just wanted to see how you guys are doing in here," the man from before called.

"We've found a puppy that we like," Crane replied and held up the little black puppy.

"Oh, yeah, she's a sweetheart. About 9 weeks old. We just got her in two or three weeks ago. She's very loveable, likes sitting in your lap," the man replied. "By the way, I never introduced myself. I'm James," he said with a grin.

"We ought to go see the adults, just to see if there are any we like more," Crane decided. Though she didn't speak, Kathryn seemed unwilling to go; she took the puppy from Crane and pressed her loosely against her chest.

"She'll still be here when you get back," James laughed. Reluctantly, Kathryn let the puppy go and stood up beside Crane.

"Follow me into the adults' room." Crane went after James, while Kathryn lagged behind, petting every puppy she passed. Finally, they were in a much larger room. Dogs ran around the middle, and there were many in spacious kennels around the walls. The sound of barking filled the air, both playful and angry.

Kathryn stayed pressed against the door, her eyes wide. "Are you alright?" Crane asked, concerned. James was looking at her with a worried gaze.

"I just d-don't like it when they b-bark," she stammered nervously.

"It's okay, it's okay. Don't be afraid," James reassured her as Crane grasped her hand. Clearly, this was something James had had to deal with before. Slowly, Kathryn nodded, although she stayed where she stood instead of progressing into the room like James did.

"Here's a quiet little boy. He's two years old, doesn't mess with anyone. His name is Nixon, but we call 'im Nix." James had a medium-sized fluffy dog in his arms. After a few moments, Kathryn reached out and stroked Nixon's head.

Suddenly she screamed. "What's wrong?" Crane exclaimed.

"He bit me!" Kathryn wailed, pulling both hands toward her chest to cradle her wound. A few drops of blood were visible on her wrist. Nixon was placed on the ground, where he ran off into a corner; James followed to scold him sternly.

"Let me see it, Kathryn." She obeyed Crane's order and stuck out her hand with a whimper. The wound didn't seem to be that bad - four or five small punctures that were bleeding slowly and some red marks that would probably bruise. It would need some cleaning and a good bandaging, but she wouldn't need to go to the hospital.

"Is she alright?" James called.

"Yes, we'll be fine. I don't think we'll take that one," Crane replied. Well, that much was obvious.

"So would you like that puppy, then?" Once Nixon was suitably reprimanded and placed in a cage, James came back and took them into the puppy room, where Crane scooped up the little black puppy and handed it to Kathryn. She cradled it in one arm and sniffled.

"How much is this one?" Crane asked as he scratched the little puppy's stomach once more.

"Our adoption fee is 100 dollars. She's been spayed, had all her shots, de-worming, heartworm treatments, and a vet examination. You'll need to take her in to a vet to get boosters three weeks from now, and three weeks after that," James listed. After exchanging a few glances with Kathryn, Crane nodded.

"Will she … will she b-bite me?" Kathryn whispered with a pained look down at her wounded hand.

"I doubt it. You're getting her as a pup, and she's pretty relaxed. But if anything happens, give us a call. We can set you up with some pup obedience classes," James offered.

"If we have any problems, I'll surely call you. Thank you." Crane was standing beside Kathryn and examining her wound intently. It would definitely need to be washed, probably with peroxide, or she might get an infection.

"Well, bring her around to the front desk. There's a bit of paperwork to fill out. Meanwhile, why don't you go pick out some stuff for her? Toys, a leash, a crate, all that? It's all sold downstairs," James told Kathryn. She looked up at Crane, biting her lower lip, and then nodded. After getting directions, she shuffled out of the room and into the lobby.

"Are you sure you want to be getting a dog? She doesn't seem like she much cares for them -" When James tried to continue his sentence, Crane just shook his head.

"She has an anxiety disorder. This is normal for her. Don't worry about it," Crane replied in a supremely dismissive tone.

"You really sure?"

"I'm a doctor. Her doctor, to be precise. I'm Jonathan Crane," he admitted with a small smile.

There was an extended moment where James did several double-takes. "Why are you getting her a dog, then?" he finally asked skeptically.

"I adopted her. There was a … complex family situation. Like I said, don't worry about it," Crane muttered, obviously trying to get the man to stop talking.

"Well … let's go take care of that paperwork, then." After an awkward pause, James led Crane out into the lobby. Once he was settled behind the desk, James handed him a stack of papers and a cheap pen emblazoned with the shelter's name.

"Just sign wherever it says sign. Most of the stuff is just jargon anyways." Crane did so; the process took about half an hour, until the last page was finally notated properly.

"You're now the proud owner of a dog from Idle Paws! You can check out and pay the adoption fee downstairs," James informed him. Crane didn't waste a second snatching up the papers he was responsible for and rushing down to the shop - Kathryn hadn't been alone in public for weeks and she hadn't had her medication. Because of this, he wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting when he entered the small shop in the basement of the animal shelter.

Finding a sleeping girl with a tearstained face, curled up halfway inside a large dog crate, with a small puppy draped over her neck, was certainly near the bottom of the list. The woman behind the register was staring at her with a look somewhere between anger and pity. "Are you her father?" the woman whispered as Crane walked in.

"Yes, I am. Did something happen?" Crane asked hurriedly, rushing to her side and crouching near her head as quietly as possible.

"She came down here, looked at some food, and then she started crying and crawled into that crate. The puppy sort of followed her. Both of 'em fell asleep about ten minutes ago. Is she okay?" the woman wondered, although she didn't sound as if she cared much.

"Possibly. Give me a minute to find what I need for the puppy and then I'll take her home. I apologize sincerely," Crane told her, not sincere at all. Did it not occur to this woman to let someone know if a teenage girl fell asleep in a dog kennel? It was not exactly a normal thing to do, and Kathryn was alone. Unsupervised. She could have been ill, she could have been dying and this woman was content to just sit and watch?

While thinking all these angry thoughts, Crane was grabbing wet and dry dog food, dishes, a harness, a medium-sized crate. He slammed them down on the counter along with the bill James had filled out, and whipped out his wallet.

"A-alright, sir. Let me ring these up," the woman stammered. Did he really look _that_ angry? That wasn't exactly what he was thinking about, because he was headed toward the crate and pulling Kathryn out. As she began to slide across the floor, her eyes opened.

"Daddy? Whuh - where am I?" she mumbled.

"You're in the store at the animal shelter. Come on, Kathryn, get up," he urged in a hushed and frustrated voice. While she sat up, Kathryn looked up at him with teary, bloodshot eyes.

"I'm sorry, daddy," she whispered. His fingers ran through her hair.

"No, it's alright. Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine," he murmured back.

"S-sir? Are you ready?" the woman hesitantly inquired. His head snapped up at the intrusion.

"Yes, yes," he barked. After another quiet assurance, he went up to the counter and scrawled his signature on the receipt. Two hundred and eighty-six dollars and twenty-seven cents. It was the most money he'd spent in one place for the last few months. But he paid no attention to the total; instead, he pushed the signed receipt across the counter and grabbed his purchases.

"Put the puppy in the crate and let's go," he told Kathryn as calmly as he could manage at the moment.

**A/N: Hella long chapter. I would write more, but this seemed like an acceptable place to cut it off. I'll hopefully be back tomorrow with another update!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I don't know why but I really liked the last chapter. It was fairly logical (sort of) and it reveals things about the future of the story! It's magical how I keep writing things when I'm half-asleep and angry that turn out to fit perfectly into the plot (which was also written when I was angry and half-asleep). Yay! Thanks to reviewers and readers, and to my readers in Ireland, please do not take any offense at my terrible use of Gaelic coming up here. I got it out of **_**A Wizard Abroad**_** by Diane Duane, so blame her, not me.**

"Daddy, are you a-alright? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to - but I got upset. I was by m-myself and my head was hurting and the crate was small and dark. Bally went in and I f-followed her and just fell asleep, dunno why," she explained after they were seated in the car. 'Bally', as the dog was apparently named, was sitting on Kathryn's lap with her new harness on: a little emerald green thing with several black buckles and silver D-rings on it.

"What did you say the pup's name was?" Crane asked wearily. Today had been a long day that was not yet over.

"B-a-eye-l-e a-t-h-a C-l-eye-a-t-h. Bally uh Clee-uh's how it's p-pronounced. It's the Irish name for Dublin," she replied, as if this was a perfectly normal name for a puppy.

"How did you arrive at that title, precisely?" he wondered with a raised eyebrow in her direction.

"I read this book once, and the main character went to Ireland. They had a little Gaelic glossary in the back that said Dublin originally meant 'black pool' in old Gaelic. Seemed right, but Dublin isn't much of a girl's name. So I picked the modern Irish version. It means something about reed hurdles, I don't remember. But it sounds pretty and it's not common, right?" She rubbed the dog's head affectionately, with no trace of her previous mood left.

After a confused moment, during which Crane tried to wrap his mind around the confused logic of that statement, he said, "And the nickname is Baile? I think Cliath's more feminine, personally." Baile atha Cliath, only marginally more tired than her new mistress, lifted her head.

"Oh, yeah, you're right. Cliath it is," she agreed contentedly. "A-are you sure you're alright?"

What could he say? He was incredibly frustrated, but not at her. Frustrated at the woman for not calling for help. Frustrated at James for keeping him with damned paperwork while Kathryn was upset and alone. Frustrated at himself for not knowing something was wrong, for letting her go off by herself when she was off her medication. But none of these were things that he needed to concern her with. "I'm fine," he said absently, too steeped in thought to pay attention to anything but the road.

"You s-sure? I am sorry," Kathryn muttered and ducked her head. "I wouldn't have if - I don't know, I'm sorry, I didn't … didn't mean to …" As she trailed off, she slumped against the window.

"Stop apologizing!" he snapped. If he didn't get control of himself, he would just ruin everything. It was time to calm down.

"I'm sorry, I'm sor- sor- I'm -"

"Please, Kathryn, just be quiet for a minute. I need to think," he ordered. There was a noise very similar to a choked sob, but she didn't speak. Cliath dug her nose against Kathryn's leg, whimpering quietly.

None if it was her fault, that was for sure. But how much of it was his fault? Leaving her alone, certainly. Forgetting to dose out her medication after realizing she hadn't taken it, for sure - he didn't even have the prescriptions at home yet. An emergency trip to Arkham was in order. But how to get there without distressing her? Obviously she couldn't stay at home by herself, not in her current state, especially not with the puppy to deal with. Driving up might frighten her, though, and make her think he was sending her back to the asylum. At the moment, though, getting her medication was more important than prancing around her delicate mental state. Once he had driven far enough to get his bearings, he headed toward the Narrows.

"Wh-where are we going? This doesn't look like the way we got here," she whispered nervously. He looked over to see how she was doing; the girl was pressed into the seat with wide, nervous eyes.

"I have to pick up your medication from Arkham. It's alright, we'll head right home after that," he promised in a more warm voice than before. It didn't seem to help, though, for the mention of going back to Arkham sent a visible shudder down her back.

"D-do we h-have t-to? I w-want to g-go h-home." Hopefully, she wasn't on the brink of another attack, since that would require taking her deep into the building, and that would only stress her out more. Carefully, he laid one hand on her arm, keeping his eyes trained forward.

Tremors ran from her arm to his. "D-daddy, I d-don't w-want t-to." Her voice wasn't panicked; instead, it just sounded like she was going to cry.

"Five minutes. Just five minutes. You can sleep in the lobby, and I'll run to the pharmacy, okay?" That offer should be enticing to her. Her recent somnolence was most likely a side effect of her medication, so she would want to sleep still.

"B-but - okay, I guess … you promise we'll g-go home right after?" she asked quietly. Crane sighed, an exhale that seemed to say a million words.

"Yes. We'll go home and have dinner, and then you and Cliath can go to sleep." By that point, they were pulling up. Crane parked the car right in front, even though it was less than legal, and unbuckled his seat belt to lean back and grab Cliath's leash from a bag in the trunk.

At that, Kathryn looked confused. "She's coming in. I'm not about to leave her in the car," he explained in a voice filled with emotional exhaustion. Her face was jubilant as she opened her door and cradled the drowsy pup in her arms. Both doors slammed, and the two of them walked up to the front doors.

"Dr. Crane! What's wrong?" Lea exclaimed from behind the desk. She had good reason to be surprised; after all, he had said that he was taking two weeks off.

"Just getting Kathryn's medication. Would you mind watching her while I run down to the pharmacy?" he asked her while Kathryn curled up in one of the cushioned chairs that lined the walls. With a pitying glance toward the girl, Lea nodded.

"I'll be right back." With that, he rushed off down the hall to the Arkham pharmacy. The door required a five-digit key code, which he inputted hurriedly. There was a pharmacist deep behind the shelves, and Crane pulled on his sleeve to get his attention. Leaving Kathryn alone for more than five or ten minutes seemed to be a terrible idea, and he wanted to get her home quickly - his calm demeanor was wearing thin and would certainly disappear if something like before happened again.

"What did you need, Dr. Crane?" The pharmacist - Murphy, his name was, Paul Murphy - turned to face him, and looked very peeved when he did.

"I need to get Kathryn Winner's prescriptions - she was discharged but still needs her medication - and I wanted to add something. Gonna try her on fluoextine at some point. So ten milligram tablets of fluoxetine, twenty milligrams of seroxat, and twenty milligrams of propranolol. D'you need me to sign off on it?" he shot out quickly. Lord, this man had better be fast.

"Uh, no, that's fine. Give me a few minutes -"

"Hurry _up_! She hasn't had her meds yet today," Crane snapped. Instantly, Murphy began scrambling around the small dilapidated pharmacy, carefully counting out pills as quickly as he could manage. It still took at least five minutes for him to print the labels and affix them to three different bottles. All in all, it was a seven minute process - he knew this because he was staring at his watch and tapping his foot testily. All it took was a stern glance and a cough when Murphy slowed below what Crane had decided was an acceptable pace.

"H-here you go, Dr. Crane," Murphy stammered as he handed a brown paper bag to his boss. Crane did not utter a word of thanks; he snatched the bag from Murphy and rushed from the room. Nine minutes since he had left, by his reckoning, and already something terrible could have happened.

No such terrible events had occurred. In fact, she was slumbering quietly in the chair, which was exactly what he had wanted. Cliath was sitting underneath the chair, her tail thumping happily against the old tile floor. "Did she do anything?"

"No, she just curled up and went right to sleep. The dog hopped off her lap just a minute ago." Lea was smiling softly. A broad relieved grin spread across his face. For once, something had gone right! He shook her shoulder with one hand and scooped up Cliath with the other.

"Hopefully, I won't see you again for a week or two," he called to Lea as Kathryn stirred.

"Time to go home," he murmured. She immediately stood and followed him out the door. Once seated in the car, she went back to sleep.

The way she slept, or rather the amount of time that she slept, was beginning to concern him, but he would worry about it tomorrow, when both of them had eaten and had a good eight hours' sleep - or in his case, at least five hours, which was more than he'd gotten lately. Thinking of sleep was enough to chase away the last of his frustration.

**A/N: Awkward ending, but I wanted something to post tonight.**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: I apologize if updates are slowing down. I've been doing a lot of spinning and cleaning and working and such. Plus I've hit a wee bit of writer's block. But I will try my hardest to push through the 'I don't know what should happen next' disease. I really just have no idea what should happen in this chapter. I know what I want to happen LATER, but not NOW. It's rather infuriating. I started writing a later chapter that's been stuck in my head all week, and that helped, although it's hard to resist posting it even though it's WAY out of continuity at the moment. This chapter sort of feels like a bit of a cop-out because it's a lot of montage, but you would not have enjoyed reading through all of it and I feel it's more entertaining this way (there's one point where you'll know what I'm talking about).**

In the morning, Crane awoke to find Kathryn, wrapped in a comforter, asleep on the floor just inside the doorway of his bedroom. Although it wasn't exactly what he had been expecting to see when he opened his eyes, he couldn't really say he was surprised. After all, Kathryn had grown quite attached to him of late, to the point where it caused her severe distress to be separated from him. If this had happened with her father, he could almost understand why the man was so frustrated -

No. He would not think that way. Those sorts of thoughts were what got her here in the first place. It wasn't her fault that she had an anxiety disorder and wasn't comfortable being alone, and he couldn't treat her as if it was. It simply wasn't fair.

Slowly he stood and tiptoed to the door, scooping Kathryn up and laying her out on the bed. Once she had settled back into a deep slumber, he went out to start making breakfast. Scrambled eggs and fruit would probably be acceptable to her, since most people liked them. It didn't take him long to put two plates of food together, and he left them on the counter while he went to wake her up.

Her face was pressed into the pillows and she was curled up in a tiny ball under the blanket. "Wake up, Kathryn," he called. There was a stirring and a weak groan. "Do I hafta?" But she tossed the comforter to the side, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

He pulled her to a standing position. "Breakfast is ready - do you like scrambled eggs?" Though she nodded, she didn't seem too pleased. So she didn't much care for them. At least she seemed like she would eat what he'd cooked, which was good - couldn't have her making her own food all the time.

"Hold on, let me get your medicine." The bag was still sitting on his nightstand. He wouldn't start her on fluoxetine until later in the week, when she was more accustomed to the house, and then he would see how she was doing. No reason to distress the poor girl any further, since she might suffer from new side effects under the fluoxetine.

Her plate was nearly half-empty by the time he was back in the kitchen with a pill bottle in each hand. As he dosed out one of each pill, he was chuckling under his breath. "You must have been hungry, huh?" he asked over the flow of water from the tap. Once a glass of water was placed on the breakfast bar, she took each pill with a separate swig.

"Yeah, I'm always hungry," she replied and took another bite of scrambled eggs, then popped a grape in her mouth. "Thanks for making breakfast, daddy." At that, he smiled and sat down with his plate to enjoy the first breakfast he'd had in several months - usually, the morning was too busy, or he was too tired, to eat. While the eggs weren't great, they were better than nothing.

Neither of them spoke, both too focused on their plates. Every few moments he would glance up at Kathryn, and she looked remarkably downbeat. That wasn't like her, for she was normally chipper, even when she had had morning appointments at seven or eight AM. And it was past nine o'clock today, so she couldn't be too tired. "Are you feeling okay?"

Instead of answering, she took a small sip of water. "I'm sorry … about y-yesterday. I didn't mean to embarrass you, I really didn't. I hope you're not mad at me," she whispered. Why hadn't he guessed that she would be upset about what happened? It was almost instinct for him to stand up and wrap his arms around her shoulders.

"No, no, I'm not mad at you and you didn't embarrass me. It wasn't your fault and you should not think it was. Don't be upset." Of course she started sniffling, and her head dropped until her chin was brushing her chest. His hand moved to rub her back soothingly, as he had done for her several times before, in a slow, smooth rhythm.

After a few minutes, she calmed down enough to sit up straight. "Thank you. I know I'm a h-handful." What an understatement that was. But he had had to make this decision; it was the best choice for her mental health. And was it not his job to improve the mental health of his patients?

It was a surprise to him that Cliath hadn't shown up, since the pup would surely be hungry. "Where is Cliath sleeping? Is she in the crate or on your bed?" he asked softly. Before he had even finished the sentence, though, she was rushing into the room in a flurry of tiny black and brown paws. Crane laughed as he put down a dish of kibble, which swiftly disappeared.

"What are we going to do today?" Kathryn asked once she had finished all of her food. Odd how he hadn't really though of anything to do, but then again, he had had more on his mind the past few days than how to entertain a fourteen year old girl who couldn't be left alone for more than five minutes.

Suddenly, he knew something that really needed to be done. "You need some clothes, don't you? We can go to the department store or the mall, if you'd like."

He hadn't expected that she would be so excited by the idea of shopping. "Oh, yeah! Let me go get my shoes - but we gotta walk Cliath first. I need a plastic baggie or something since she's gonna go to the bathroom. Come on, let's go!" That overtone to her voice - pure, joyous female excitement - was impossible to ignore, and he scooped up Cliath in his arms to put her harness and leash on. By the time he had changed his clothes and cleaned up a bit, Kathryn was sitting on a couch in the living room on the first floor. Her fingers tapped across her knees in a way that was, by now, familiar.

The walk was short, mostly because Kathryn was massively impatient and Cliath got tired fairly quickly. Once inside, he insisted that they both showered before they left, and that was a process that she didn't rush. It was twenty minutes before he heard the water turn off, and another twenty before she was out of the bathroom with mostly dry hair. "That feels nice," she sighed. Oh, right: he had forgotten that she hadn't had a real shower in weeks.

"Now come on, let's go!" He had already showered, so he was able to comply with her hurried demands. They hopped into his tiny car and drove out to the nearest department store.

"Okay, now what section are we looking for?" he asked, perplexed. As far as he could remember, he had never had to shop for a young woman, especially one with such an unusual frame as Kathryn - very long of limb and still very thin from her two-week 'freeze'.

"Juniors, and maybe women's. I dunno, depends on what fits and what I like and what's on sale." Good to hear that she apparently had an eye for budget-friendly clothes, since he had been fearing a huge bill at the end of the day.

As she walked around the first section of the store, juniors in JcPenney's, he was dragged around and asked for opinions constantly, which wasn't the most comfortable situation since he didn't have any fashion sense whatsoever. When one had worn nothing but suits for the past eight years, one wasn't wise on the latest trends, especially in a category out of one's gender and age range.

"What do you think of this one?" For the twentieth time, he shrugged. "I told you, I don't know. Pick what you like." With a giggle, she draped the shirt over her arm, atop a stack of other shirts and bottoms, then stopped.

"I need to go try these on. Will you wait outside the dressing room?" Though she asked hesitantly and theoretically allowed him to refuse, he wouldn't. If he left, something disastrous would most likely occur, even though she was on her medication now. So they trekked through the store to the girls' dressing room, and he sat on the floor right outside. Every minute or so, he had to reassure her that yes, he was still sitting there, no, he didn't mind waiting, no, he had no idea whether that top looked good on her or not, yes, he would look at just one more.

Kathryn plowed through every clearance and sale rack in the juniors' section and in the women's, and wound up with three and a half armfuls of discounted clothing. At checkout, the final total was remarkably low - she was certainly easy to shop for. "Thank you, daddy," she murmured once they were back in the car.

Both she and Crane were surprised to realize that they had skipped over lunch, and it was almost four thirty. They had a quick and easy dinner of leftover alfredo. Once the dishes were washed, Kathryn curled up on the couch, laying her head on the armrest. "What now?"

"Do you want to watch a movie?" he proposed, and she shrugged at that. So he put in a DVD and settled down on the couch beside her. "How are you feeling?" Ten minutes into the movie and she was already about to fall asleep.

"Tired. 'N my stomach feels funny," she mumbled. Nausea was a side effect she seemed to suffer from, but it didn't hurt her too much, so he wasn't worried.

"What should we do tomorrow?" Advance plans would probably be helpful, instead of trying to improvise every day.

"Sleep." And with that, she grew silent and fell against the back of the couch. After waiting a few minutes to make sure she was really asleep, he carried Kathryn up the stairs and tucked her in - all the time thanking every god he could name that she had worn her pajamas all day.

For once, a night where he could go to bed early, instead of staying up until all hours poring over files or medical journals or paperwork of any sort. It was only seven o'clock, and he was free to read a novel in bed like he always wished to do. _Jurassic Park _was a good choice - it was short and suspenseful, and he'd never gotten around to reading the old copy he had picked up at a secondhand bookshop.

After an hour, there was a loud whimper as someone in a room down the hall awoke and tiptoed into his room with a blanket dragging behind her. "Kathryn, you have to sleep in your own bed. It's not good to sleep on the floor," he reminded her gently.

"But - but - when I'm alone it's dark and someone might start screaming, they always do, or they laugh, and they … they scream, daddy, they scream like someone is killing them." So she was remembering sleeping at the asylum - or not sleeping, by the sound of it.

"No one else is here. It's just you and me, and no one is going to scream," he promised. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the setting autumn sun, she shivered.

"O-okay." And she shuffled back down the hall.

"Come on, then, bring your pillow," he sighed, defeated yet again. Why couldn't he have any backbone when it came to her? It was because he had never had a daughter, that was it. Even though she wasn't much younger than he was - only twelve years - she acted like a little girl most of the time, and she was easy to pamper.

When she came back into his room with a pillow and her blanket, he could see that she was smiling shyly. "Thank you." She laid out on the floor next to his bed and promptly fell asleep.

So this was fatherhood.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: I liked the ending to the last chapter. Maybe I'm just hopelessly sentimental, but I thought it was cute. ANYWAY. I've gotten over a thousand hits for Panic this month! Thanks to all of my readers. You guys are amazing. I mean, without knowing that there are people all over the world reading this story and waiting for new chapters, I wouldn't be posting nearly as quickly. So thanks to you all. And before you say anything about the fact that she should be going through seroxat withdrawal, I did do my research. Fluoxetine can be used as a substitute for seroxat when trying to get off of medication, which means it wouldn't cause withdrawal symptoms in this case, if I've assimilated that information properly. Oh and sorry for another montage, but boring everyday tasks aren't really fun to write and a twenty minute solo trip didn't seem very intriguing.**

After a week he had been giving her fluoxetine instead of seroxat for five days. The side effects were supposedly less, but more importantly, the withdrawal effects for fluoxetine were rumored to be much easier to deal with, which would certainly be an asset if he ever tried to take her off medication entirely. He had cut off the propranolol as well.

Kathryn was sleeping on an inflatable mattress in his bedroom, cutting the available floor space from moderate to none. No matter how many times he had tried to convince her that there was no one else in the house, she couldn't manage to sleep in her own room for more than half an hour before creeping back to the master bedroom. Cliath usually followed and curled up on the mattress beside her mistress. When he laid in bed, watching the two of them slumbering peacefully, there was a wondrous sense of fulfillment, like he was doing something that he'd been missing all his life.

This morning, he looked down to see her completely covered by the blanket, shaking like a leaf. "Kathryn? Are you awake?" he called with concern. There was no answer. Worried, he tossed the blanket aside and picked her up with a bit of strain. Her eyes were open when he first saw her, so she was awake. "Did you have a nightmare?"

While waiting for her response, he sat down on the edge of the mattress to save his knees from undue strain. "Unh-unh. S'all tight. Lemme go!" And she rolled onto the floor and crawled into a corner.

"What do you mean, it's all tight?" What was going on?

"No. Go away. You made the crawling things come back." Her legs were twitching madly, and she whimpered. 'Crawling things' was the way she described akathisia; was she suffering from it because of the fluoxetine just like she did with the seroxat? Yes, that was certainly it.

He held out his hand to her, but did not move, since she was already upset enough. "Come here and talk to me," he requested. With a whine, she obeyed, shuffling over to his side. "Now, I know it doesn't feel good, but I think we should wait a few days to see if it gets better before giving you the propranolol. Okay?"

"No! No! I don't want to wait!" she exclaimed. When she tried to move away, he grasped her upper arm firmly. This was one time when he was going to stand firm.

"Now, I need to go to the grocery store. Do you want to come or do you want to stay here?" Her eyes were squinted angrily, and her lips pouted.

"Don't wanna go," she muttered. Well, that was that. But would she be alright staying by herself? Apparently, she thought so, but he needed to make sure. "You'll be okay here while I'm gone?" She nodded, and Crane went into the bathroom to shower.

When he came back out, after showering and shaving, Kathryn was no longer in his room, nor was she on her bed. Finally he found her walking around the kitchen anxiously. The girl was muttering to herself, something that sounded like "just wait until he leaves".

"Wait until I leave for what?" he called loudly across the counter. Her head snapped up, and she had a very guilty look on her face.

"N-nothing, nothing. It's n-nothing." It certainly was not nothing, whatever she was planning on doing, and he walked into the kitchen with an air of authority about him.

"Do I need to stay home with you?" She shook her head fervently. "N-n-n-no. I'm f-f-fine," she stammered. There was no ethical way to weasel the information out of her, so he would have to give Kathryn the benefit of the doubt. One thing was certain - this would be a very rushed trip to the grocery store.

Once he was sure that she wasn't going to do anything rash or dangerous while he was gone, Crane went out the house and locked the door. His cell phone number had been stuck to the refrigerator, in case she needed anything. There was enough food in the house for her to make breakfast if she got hungry. While he mentally checked to make sure everything was as it should be, he pulled out of his parking spot and drove out onto the road.

There were few people driving so late on a Tuesday morning - it was near ten AM - so he reached the nearby grocery store in record time. He had a small list of things that he needed, but what would she want to eat? She had shown a love of pasta with cream sauce, and she didn't much care for eggs. She did like fruit, especially grapes. That was a very limited range of foods to choose from, so he would just have to get a bit of everything.

After about twenty minutes, his cart was filled with a plethora of food choices - precooked chicken, English muffins, broccoli, apples, potato chips, and everything else he could think of to satisfy her appetite. He got a fairly large quantity of food, since she had said that she was 'always hungry'. Checkout was fairly quick, probably sped up by his violently impatient expression, and he made it back to the car with little incident.

"Kathryn, I'm home," he hollered once he walked in the door with his arms full of brown paper bags. When she didn't answer, he shrugged and went out to get the rest of the bags. The trunk slammed shut loudly, and he entered the house hesitantly. "Kathryn? Where are you?"

No answer. "Come down here and help put groceries away." No answer. "Are you okay? You napping?" No answer. At this point, he was getting worried. Had something happened? Had she hurt herself? He had only been gone for forty minutes! What sort of trouble could she have gotten into in forty minutes? In a very particular and focused eye, he began searching every nook and cranny of the first floor, but she was nowhere. This was just like the first day she'd come home, only he had absolutely no idea where she could be hiding, and she knew the house almost as well as he did by now.

Although he had thought she might be sleeping, she wasn't in her bedroom or on the mattress in his room. Finally, finally, he found the girl curled up in the tub in the upstairs bathroom, wrapped around several pill bottles. She was shaking and whimpering. "Oh, god, Kathryn! Did you take any pills?" No answer. "Did you take any pills?" he exclaimed again. No answer.

"What did you take? You have to tell me, Kathryn! Tell me what you took!" Kathryn just shook her head and pressed into the corner of the bathtub. "Please, just tell me! I won't be mad if you just tell me! I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong!" Again, she shook her head.

"D-d-didn't t-t-take any p-p-p-p-pills," she stammered in a voice almost like a whisper.

"Then what is wrong with you?" Another shake of the head, the motion jerky and fervent.

"Didn't t-t-t-take any p-p-pills," she repeated. The pill bottles clattered against the porcelain tub. They were all empty. Oh, this was worse than he'd though. She had taken all of them and now she was going to die if she wasn't rushed to the hospital immediately.

"Why would you do that? Why would you kill yourself?" Now she was angry, picking up a bottle and tossing it against the wall. What could have possibly possessed her to do something so utterly and unbearably _stupid_?

"I d-d-d-didn't, I d-d-didn't t-t-take them, I d-d-didn't!" she gasped.

"Then why are all the bottles empty, Kathryn? Where did they go?" He was making a valiant effort to make his voice more gentle, but the anger and sorrow was threatening to chase him over the edge.

Once again, she shook her head. "Th-th-they're in the d-d-drain, I d-dumped them o-o-o-out. N-n-n-no m-more p-p-p-p-pills." It looked like she was crying, the sound of harsh and jarring sobs echoing off the shower walls.

"You really didn't take any of them?" he barked. Her eyes closed.

"N-n-n-no … I d-d-d-didn't t-take any." And he scooped her up and held her on his lap. Tears were beginning to pool up in his eyes. Little drops spilled onto her sky blue shirt and disappeared in the soft jersey fabric. Both of them were crying, but Kathryn was really sobbing - her entire thin frame shook as her knees knocked against his ribcage.

A little whimper was coming out of her throat. "Shush, shush, dear. It's okay. Everything's going to be alright. You're going to be just fine. I didn't mean to yell. I'm sorry. It's alright. Just take a deep breath. Daddy's here, it's okay." The soft words, spoken in a smoothly quiet voice filled with a therapist's reassurance and a father's love, seemed to do their job in calming her down, until her body stilled and her breathing became regular.

"I just d-didn't … I'm s-sorry, I'm sorry, daddy. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't m-mean to - didn't mean to -" Apparently, she had just run out of words and reverted instead to pressing her face against the polo shirt he wore, rubbing her head up and down every few seconds. He ran his fingers through her hair slowly.

"Please promise me you will never do anything like that again," he ordered with authority, and she nodded.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I'm sorry if the story is getting a little boring. I'm just trying to figure out exactly what needs to happen before the out-of-continuity chapter I wrote, and I'm not sure. If I'm thinking logically, there's a lot that should happen, but part of me wants to get it over to move onto more exciting things that will happen later. Don't worry, though, I foresee at least ten more chapters in this story, probably fifteen or twenty. In this chapter, some drama there be. And I don't own Anastasia or any books mentioned in this story - Jurassic Park, **

**PEOPLE, PLEASE REVIEW. I've been getting one or two reviews a chapter, which doesn't provide much advice or even that warm-fuzzy feeling.**

"Now, can you explain to me why you dumped all your pills down the drain? It's going to be hard for me to refill those prescriptions so soon, you know. They'll accuse me of selling drugs." At this point, he wasn't really expecting a logical answer out of her. Hell, he wasn't even quite sure if she hadn't taken the pills and then lied about it, although that was fairly unlikely, as she would probably be showing some symptoms by now.

Kathryn shifted in his lap, and her face lifted off of his shirt. "They make me hurt … so I threw them away. I knew you'd make me take them if I didn't, I couldn't just pretend to take them like before. And I didn't w-want to take them anymore. But …" With seeming shame, she ducked her head. Her childlike mentality never ceased to amaze - it was almost as if she'd grown only physically in the last seven years. Surely there was some sort of explanation, but today was not the day to go rooting for it. Why did he always discover facts about her at times when it was completely inappropriate to get the whole story?

Crane hugged her tightly to his chest and sighed. "What do you mean, 'but'?" he asked, for the psychiatrist in him was never satisfied with an unfinished sentence.

"B-before I threw them out, I took a propranolol. That was what you gave me for the crawling things, and I thought it would make them go away," she admitted as Cliath came in and sat calmly at Crane's feet.

Well, that was a revelation. Better than hearing that she really had tried to kill herself. "Don't you know how risky that was? You could have taken the wrong pill, you could have -"

"I'm not an idiot. I know how to read. And I drank water with it, that's what the label said. How old do you think I am? I know - I know I don't seem like it, but I'm not a little kid." She tore herself from his grasp and stood up stiffly before walking from the room. When she didn't return, he followed out into the hall. While the door was closed, he could hear singing from inside her bedroom. It was a song form Anastasia - _Once Upon A December_, if memory served. All of a sudden, the melody shifted up an octave, but her voice carried it beautifully in a wordless, lilting soprano.

He tried to open the door, but it was locked. "Fine. I'll be downstairs," he snapped. Her actions weren't proving her words at all; it wasn't adult behavior to lock oneself away instead of facing one's problems. As he went quickly down the stairs, her singing continued, louder than ever.

It wasn't long before he heard her open the door and walk halfway down the stairs. Instead of coming all the way down, she sat on the landing and started humming. "Are you feeling better?" he called from his seat on the couch.

"Y-yeah. I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. It's not like I really act m-my age, I know that. But it's not my fault, I can't help it. Something in my head just … just s-switches off when bad things happen, pretty often in my case. But I'm not a little kid, I just act like it - a lot," she admitted, almost too quietly too hear. His first instinct was to go over and hug her, but then he realized that actions like that might be exactly what she didn't want right now.

So he nodded sagely and stayed where he was. "I'll certainly remember that in future." He most certainly would, or there might be huge consequences. What she said seemed to be true; what she had said today proved that. Dealing with her at home was proving to be a careful balance of caring for a young child and a mature teenager. But when was she in which 'mode'? It was very hard to tell.

"Do you mind if I go take a nap?" There was no reason for her to ask that question, but he shrugged. It was sort of an unreasonable question, for what reason would he have to say no?

Actually, he did have a reason. "Have you eaten today?" he inquired. Since she was still somewhat underweight, it was important for her to eat regular meals, and he had a feeling that she hadn't gotten around to eating before dumping her pills.

"No, but I'm not hungry. I feel sorta sick." Probably caused by the medication, but he wouldn't be able to get her to eat if she didn't want to eat. So he nodded, but added one condition - "I'm waking you up in two hours so you can have some food."

Though she didn't seem to like that idea very much, she agreed and went back up the stairs. Hopefully she would be able to sleep without him; the fact that it was afternoon would most likely make it easier for the girl, but he was prepared for anything at this point.

After a few moments, he began contemplating the past two weeks. Prescriptions and mattresses and dog bites and kennels and bathtubs and closets and tears. Was this what life had come to? He almost missed Arkham. Things were so much easier there! But she needed a home. No matter what he went through, it was for the good of a patient.

It wasn't just for a patient anymore. Through all the time he'd spent with Kathryn, dealing with her tantrums, mood swings, panic attacks, suspicious accusations, pill disposals, and prolific naps, he had begun to really think of her as his daughter. What else was he supposed to call her? Whatever she was, she was certainly no longer just a patient. And…

He was her father now. She believed so, anyways. No matter what, he had to be a father to her. Even though she was infuriating at times. Even though she was impossible to deal with. Even though she acted feral to the point of violence when threatened. If he had to watch her every hour of the day, he would do it for her.

At that point, he was considering the fact that working at Arkham was basically impossible, unless they would accept him having a personal 'take your child to work day' every day of the year, and he couldn't see patients like that anyways. Perhaps he could get her to the point where she could remain locked in his office during appointments. Yes, that would work. He could see one or two patients a day and take care of her at the same time. That would be the best choice for everyone.

Maybe a good book would help take his mind off of such complex thoughts - Crane was no longer in the mood for epiphanies. One a day was usually his limit, so perhaps he ought to focus on something else. His copy of_ Jurassic Park _was still on his bedside table, unread since last week, and he was almost finished with the introduction. Distracting, suspenseful, prehistoric excitement waited just up the stairs.

His footsteps were deliberately light and quiet, so as not to wake her if she had already managed to get to sleep. However, he was somewhat alarmed to find her curled up under a blanket on his bed, with an old book between her pale fingers. It was clear that she was sleeping heavily: slack jaw, slow breathing, body completely still. With a soft smile, he pulled the book away and set it on the table. It was _Alice in Wonderland_, a book he'd owned since he was young. It was quite good, and remarkably mature considering the fact that it was written for children. Based on where she'd had her hands, she had gotten about halfway through.

For once, she didn't wake up, which was fortunate. He was able to get his book without any disruption, but looking down at her slumbering face made him yawn without thinking. Well, there would be nothing wrong with taking a little nap. With his bed out of commission, he'd have to sleep on the mattress, but that wouldn't be a problem, as it was a pretty comfortable imitation of a bed.

Once he had changed into his pajamas from the polo and slacks he had been wearing earlier - in his mind, his most casual attire - he laid out on the mattress. It was quite remarkable how easily he fell asleep once lying down. Probably, it was because he never slept much, but Crane was usually one to read for at least half an hour before sleeping.

He really shouldn't have been so surprised to see Kathryn leaning over him anxiously when he woke up after what seemed like no less than a minute. Her expression was one of anxious concern, but when she realized that he was awake, her face lit up. "Hi."

"What time is it?" he grumbled, still trying to break through the haze of sleep.

"It's past seven. I woke up at two thirty, and you were asleep there and I didn't want to get you up. I had lunch already even though my stomach hurt, but it was five o'clock and you hadn't woken up. I got worried, I thought you were sick. Are you okay?" All these words tumbled from her mouth, making it almost impossible for him to understand what she was saying.

Hoping it would clear his head, he sat up and blinked rapidly. "Yes, I'm fine. Sorry for worrying you," he mumbled. There was suddenly a teenage girl wrapped tightly around him, and he chuckled. "I'm glad you ate, no matter how sick you felt."

"I took Cliath out on a walk too, so she wouldn't go to the bathroom on the floor. We just went around the house and the common area in the back." She had actually gone out of the house by herself? That was quite remarkable, and the development was enough to wake him up fully. When he looked over at her, she looked very satisfied with herself, and with good reason. That would have been the first time she'd been outside alone in months, especially since she'd become attached to him.

Maybe she was trying to show him that she was as mature as she claimed to be. Even though it was somewhat hard to believe, he would have to make an effort to treat her more like an adult when she was in that sort of mood. Otherwise, she would stop trusting him as she did, and life in the small house would rapidly become miserable.

Her grip relaxed as she realized he wasn't openly reacting. "Are you alright? Did I do something wrong?" she asked quietly. As soon as she started speaking, Crane shook his head.

"I'm just a bit surprised. That's a big step for you, isn't it?" She nodded and gave a little smile. Cliath pranced into the room, perching on his thigh in a dainty fashion.

"Yeah. I'm not a little kid," she repeated.

**A/N: BLEH.**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Two chapters today to make up for slow updates! I decided to add something more interesting before I put in the pre-written chapter, to put in some beefiness and get in plenty more chapters before the hump and then there will be plenty more chapters. Whoo! This section will start onto an important plot development that I'd been considering basically since I started the story. I thought it would be interesting, and I think it will be. I'm putting in another plea for reviews here - real constructive reviews, with criticism! I want criticism, which is a weird thing to ask for, but I'd like to hear not just what I'm doing well but what I'm doing poorly. Anyways! Onto the draaaaamaaaaaaa!**

**PS: Sorry for all the time skips, but as most people know, mundane events are not interesting to read, and I'm sure that if I wrote out every day of their lives, you all would rapidly stop reading.**

After four weeks, Kathryn had fully settled in, both body and mind. She knew exactly where to find everything in the house, whether Crane had told her where it was or not, including every quality hiding place when she was in a poor mood. Those episodes had only occurred three or four times since she'd dumped her pills, although it wasn't as easy to bring her out of her moods as it had been before. When she was of a mind to, she would hide under her bed or beneath the bathroom sink for hours, sometimes all day.

At some point, he knew he would eventually have to decrease and discontinue her medication - SSRIs were known to cause tolerance and dependence after long-term use. Now was certainly not the time, though, not when she was still acting so unpredictable even while on medication. It was hard for him to imagine what life would be like for her without medication; certainly she would be miserable, and it wouldn't be easy for him either. As it was, she was barely eating without prompting. Whether it was because of nausea or a general loss of appetite, he wasn't sure, but it might get worse without medication.

There had been several mornings when he had woken up to find Kathryn curled up under the blankets at the corner of his bed, wide awake and shivering. When he asked her what was wrong, she just shook her head and slunk back onto the little mattress. Something about her condition was rapidly declining, but he had no idea what, or why.

Today, she was sitting up on her bed with bright eyes. "Guess what today is?" she asked eagerly. He rubbed his face for a moment, trying to think of the date.

"Tuesday?" Obviously the response was incorrect, as she glared at him. Obviously, he should know what was so special about today, but it was just too early in the morning for him to be thinking rationally.

"No! It's my birthday! I'm fifteen!" Yes, yes, now he knew. It was in her file - September twenty-sixth. Why hadn't he remembered that? He would most definitely have planned something, gotten a cake, anything to mark the day for her. As it stood he would have to improvise a little party.

"Of course it is! Did you think I'd forgotten?" he teased sleepily. With a laugh, she stood and sat on the bed beside him. Her shoulders slumped at some internal prompt - all the mirth had fled from her eyes. "What's wrong? Don't you want to be fifteen?"

Her head snapped up as she forced a smile and a nod. "What do you want to do to celebrate, then?" Perhaps they could go out to see a movie, or just walk around Gotham. Something calm and relaxing that wouldn't place undue stress on her. After all, it wasn't as if she was able to have a huge party. Even if she knew enough people now who would want to come, having people over definitely wasn't in her best interests.

"I'm going to go h-have breakfast, then we can figure s-something out, okay?" she stammered. There was something bothering her. Would he be able to figure it out without asking, or was it more important to know than to be delicate and tactful? He nodded slowly.

Once he was out of the room, he debated whether or not it was reasonable to follow her and make sure nothing happened, but after some turmoil, he decided that she hadn't done anything too bad in the past few weeks, so he would let her figure out her problems on her own.

Forty minutes passed, and he decided that he was in the mood for some breakfast also, so he went down into the kitchen.

Before his feet had even hit the tile floor, there was a little whimper from inside: "Help me." He rushed inside as fast as he was able, and what he found shocked him more than anything he could remember in his entire life.

Kathryn was sitting on the rug in front of the sink, tears streaming down her cheek, with a paring knife hovering over her wrist. Several thin, bleeding cuts were already visible there, and she looked poised to make another, one with more force than before - her finger pressed against the back of the knife hard enough to whiten her knuckles. There was no time for him to react as the blade made a firm slice diagonally, from the base of her hand to her elbow.

"Stop!" he screeched, diving across the floor to throw the little knife away. Droplets of blood followed as it skittered away, metal clanging against ceramic with enough momentum to scratch the surface and put a hole in the drywall across the room.

"Please help me." The pitiful whisper was enough to send him scrambling for a phone, and his fingers fumbled over the buttons until he was able to dial 911. While he waited for someone on the other end to pick up, he grabbed a dish towel and pressed it against her forearm as firmly as he could manage with one hand.

"What is your emergency?" a curt woman asked in a clipped voice.

"It's - she's slit her arm all the way down to her elbow. We need help urgently. 8756 Ella Street. Hurry, please," he begged.

"Alright, sir. Please stay on the line until help arrives." Even though he was barely listening, he had enough sense to cradle the phone against his ear while he continued applying pressure to her wrist. Blood was soaking through the towel with startling speed.

"Hurry. You have to help her." It was all he could bear to say, as Kathryn moaned wordlessly below him.

"An ambulance should be there very soon, sir." As if that was any comfort! Suddenly, he realized that her movements were beginning to weaken, and her voice was growing quieter and quieter.

"Stay with me, Kathryn. Come on, stay awake. Please stay awake. Just a few more minutes, please. Don't die, Kathryn, don't die, please." A knock at the door. Giving her unwounded hand a squeeze, he got up to open up the door - it was the paramedics with a stretcher.

"Where is she, sir?" one of them asked hurriedly. Crane pointed to the kitchen, his face rapidly growing blank. They scooped her up and laid her out on the stretcher, her crimson arm facing up toward the sky.

As she was being wheeled out of the house, he followed behind and looked down at her. "Why?" It was the only thing he could think to ask. She just shook her head weakly, and Crane went back inside to inform the dispatcher that help had indeed arrived.

"They came and got her. Thank you." And he hung up the phone. Looking down, he saw that the floor was covered with her blood, and he grabbed a thick wad of paper towels. It wasn't until his knees touched warm liquid that he really realized what was going on.

He ran from the house and hopped into the car, following the ambulance all the way to Gotham General Hospital. While he sat in silence, it was a real battle to keep his eyes watching the road instead of replaying what he had just seen - Kathryn sitting on the floor, running a knife down her arm, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding …

What would he do if she died? What _could_ he do? People talked of moving on, of keeping someone in their memories, of doing what they would have wanted. But he could never move on. He wouldn't want to remember. And he hardly knew what she wanted anymore. "What the hell do you want me to do, Kathryn?" he cried as he pulled into the emergency room parking lot. There was a dark laugh, deep in a part of his mind he'd forgotten for weeks. At least the fact that he was covered in blood might get him through the line quicker.

Once inside, his prediction had been right. The receptionist, once she knew what he was there for, waved Crane right through and told him her room number, 733. He blindly made his way down the halls and up several flights of stairs before finding the 730s. There was 731, there was 732.

Did he really want to see her if she was cold and white beneath a sheet? No, he didn't, but he wouldn't know until he went in. So he pushed the door open and poked his head in. At this point, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to find. Every single expectation he had ever had of Kathryn had been shattered as soon as he thought them up; keeping his mind blank and his eyes open seemed to be the best choice.

There was a doctor in the room, just tying off the last of a long row of stitches running up her arm. He hadn't even noticed, but it had been her left arm she'd slashed. Now she would have scars on both arms - dog bite on the right, and … this … on the left.

But she was alive, and she smiled at him, slightly dazed, when the doctor waved him in. "Are you her father?"

That question took a moment to answer, but he figured it was best to tell the truth. "By adoption, yes. Will she be alright?" His voice was terse and taut. Why couldn't the doctor just finish up and leave? Rationally, he knew that the doctor would need to sterilize her cuts, bandage her arm, then have a long talk with him about a stay in the psych ward, but Crane just wasn't in a rational mood.

"Yes. Fortunately, you called quickly enough that we got her before she went into severe shock, and the cut didn't sever any tendons, so she won't need surgery. Now, she ought to stay over for psychological observation for at least a few days, Mister - what is your name, sir?" The doctor cut the thread and patted Kathryn on the shoulder.

"Jonathan Crane. I don't think she'll need to stay over; I'm perfectly capable of caring for her at home," he snapped. The newspaper articles about the young, upstart doctor who had taken control of Arkham before the age of thirty had spread through the city for several weeks, so people knew his name and the implications behind it.

"Ah, yes, thought I recognized you. Well, Dr. Crane, I guess you're right, although if she attempts anything, I'd appreciate if you'd bring her back here for treatment and monitoring. If she complains of too much pain, Tylenol should do the trick. And please, don't brush this off. She has a problem -"

"I know. Can you just bandage her up and let us leave?" Crane ran his fingers through her hair, while the doctor grabbed a roll of gauze and a small sterile container of antiseptic. He rubbed a thin coat of antiseptic on with freshly gloved hands, then wrapped gauze thickly around her arm. Kathryn mumbled a soft "thank you" before attempting to stand up. However, both Crane and the doctor put hands on her shoulder, as there as still an IV passing blood into her body.

It took several more minutes, spent in silence, for Kathryn to have regained enough blood for the doctor to be satisfied. "Alright, now, if she gets dizzy at all, has any vision problems, or anything of the sort, bring her back here," the doctor informed them. Crane nodded curtly and held her hand as the IV was pulled from her arm. She tried again to stand, but her balance was off, so Crane draped her un-bandaged arm over his shoulders and left the room. Instead of risking the stairs, he led her into the elevator.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Again and again she repeated those two words, as the elevator made its way downstairs, while he just held her vertical with one hand and rubbed her back with the other. Any talk he wanted to have with her would have to wait until tomorrow, when she would be able to form a full and logical sentence: the curiosity in him would have to be stifled until then.

**A/N: I considered ending this on a cliffhanger, but I decided it would be unethical.**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: For once, I'm writing the author's note after I write the chapter, so there's no speculation about what time it'll be posted! I feel like this chapter went well. It culminates what had been going on lately with Kathryn - lately being the last four weeks in story-timeline and the last few chapters in real life-timeline. Actually, it pieces together a bunch of things from earlier in the story. So enjoy, and review if you don't mind!**

When they arrived at home, Kathryn promptly fell over on the couch and went to sleep, while Crane took the paper towels he had dropped in his hurry and began cleaning up the floor. It took a bit of scrubbing to get it all off the floor, and he knew that the smell would probably linger for awhile, but at least the floor was white again.

What to do with the knives, though, was another question. There was no way he was going to leave them in the kitchen for at least a few months - it would probably be better to keep them locked up until she was no longer taking fluoxetine, which could cause suicidal thoughts. In fact, if anything else happened, he might have to send her back to Arkham for a few weeks, but that would be a last resort, if anything.

For now, he would take them all upstairs and padlock them in his bedside table along with her pills, and all the over the counter medicine in the house, and possibly the rest of the utensils. He knew from experience at Arkham that even a spoon could be used as a tool of self-mutilation if the patient was really desperate.

The most important thing now was to figure out what had prompted this attempt. Never before had she shown any remotely suicidal tendencies … or had she?

"_It's not worth it, you know? Nothing is worth all this."_

"_I can't live like this anymore."_

And he hadn't noticed. He hadn't paid attention as she had spiraled downwards into depression, even while taking an antidepressant. All of this was his fault, then. Perhaps it would be better to stop her medication now, or switch back to the seroxat. Yes, that might be a good idea, as she hadn't had these problems while taking it. But how would he get it? He'd have to take the girl to Arkham with him as he had for the past two weeks, and she could stay with him the whole time. It was certain that he couldn't leave her alone anymore.

After locking up everything that she could easily use to harm herself, Crane went to sit with her while she slept. Every so often she would twitch or moan - nightmares, probably. After about thirty minutes, she attempted to roll over, but instead rolled over her wounded arm. The resulting pain made her wake up instantly, wailing.

"Hush, it's okay. You're alright," he murmured. Once she looked up at him, she started to cry, tears rolling haphazardly down her cheeks and patterning her bloodstained shirt. Quickly he ran his thumb across her cheeks. "Don't cry. Everything's going to be fine. I'm not mad at you." Oh, yes he was, but he wasn't about to tell her that, not when she was already having such a miserable day.

"I'm sorry! I d-d-don't know w-w-why I d-did it, I c-couldn't h-h-h-help it! I j-j-just … I d-don't know, it j-just h-h-happened. And I didn't w-w-w-want t-to… I'm s-s-s-s-s-s-sorry!" she sobbed. There was no way that she didn't know why she tried to kill herself. It just wasn't something you did out of the blue.

"Have you been feeling depressed lately? Any days where you feel unusually upset or sad for no reason?" As he questioned her, he helped her to sit up, rubbing her back slowly. For a moment, she sniffled and lightly ran her finger across the bandage, presumably right across the gash.

Her lip quivered as she composed her answer mentally. "Well, y-yeah. M-most of the t-t-time, lately, I f-feel r-really upset and I c-c-can't figure out w-wh-why." Of course she hadn't told him any of that. What was her problem with revealing her problems to him? Was it because of her father, or was she just a private person? Either way, Kathryn needed to learn to open up - what happened today would hopefully prove to her that she couldn't just hide away inside herself.

"Don't you know that I can make those sorts of feelings better? You can't bottle up your feelings. It obviously just makes them worse. And why didn't you tell me this morning what you were feeling - what you were _planning_? Didn't you think for one second - that I would have stopped this before it happened, that I would have prevented all this pain? If you had talked to me for five minutes, you wouldn't have stitches all up and down your arm. Why can't you just talk to me?" he exclaimed. All the anger was threatening to boil over and spill out, burning both him and Kathryn in the process. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his thumb against the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Her entire face was trembling with the force of her tears by the time he fell silent. "I j-just c-c-can't, okay? I just c-c-c-c-can't t-talk about it! P-please d-d-don't m-m-make m-me. I just c-can't."

"Yes, you can. Do you think I'll be mad at you? I promise, I won't be upset, no matter what's bothering you -"

She cut him off with a look so angry that he couldn't keep talking. "Y-you don't c-c-care at all, do you?" With that, she stood up shakily and tried to walk out of the room, but he grasped her upper arm and dragged her back. "Leggo! I d-don't want t-to t-talk!" When she tried to pry his fingers away, the pain made her hiss.

"Whether you want to or not, I need to talk to you. Why won't you tell me what's wrong?" he prodded, forcing her to sit down on the couch.

"I already t-told y-you."

No, she hadn't told him anything yet! _"You don't care at all, do you?" _Yes, she had. And she honestly believed that he didn't care what she felt.

"I do care, Kathryn. I want you to be happy, and I don't want you to have to hurt yourself to feel okay. Why did you think I was doing all this for you? I got Cliath, I got you new clothes, I took you into my home - all so that you would be happy and healthy. What other reason could I have?"

That was precisely the wrong thing to say, for she just started clawing at him with her good arm until he let her go. Once free she rushed up the stairs and disappeared, but her pounding footsteps continued for long enough that he guessed she was in her room.

He followed her upstairs and found the bedroom door locked. "Open the door, Kathryn. We need to talk." After pounding on the door in vain several times, he sighed and pulled the lock pick he kept above the doorjamb of every room in the house. It was quite simple for him to open the door, but she wasn't visible inside.

"Kathryn! Come out here!" he exclaimed, searching under the bed and under the covers, but she wasn't in either place. Finally, he checked the closet, one of her favored hiding places, and there she was, half-hidden beneath a pile of clothing. "What did I say to upset you?"

"Go 'way. You're just like him, you don't care. Go 'way." At least she wasn't crying anymore.

"How am I like him? I can be different if it will make you feel better -"

"Why can't you leave me alone?" she hissed and pressed her face into the t-shirt she'd given him the first day she'd come home. Either she wasn't paying attention, or her words didn't match how she really felt. Personally, he guessed the latter, based on her prior experiences with the girl.

"Because I care! Because I can't stand to watch you huddled up in a closet crying after trying to kill yourself on your birthday! Because it's my responsibility to make sure that you don't get hurt! Because it hurts me to watch you tear yourself to pieces to avoid letting me help you! Don't you get it? I care!" he shouted. Every time his voice grew in pitch, she flinched and pressed further down into the t-shirt.

"Please stop y-yelling. I'm s-sorry, daddy, I'm s-sorry. I get it. I g-get it. Please don't yell at m-me." Whether it was the tone of her voice or what she said, he didn't know, but something set a shock running through him.

"Oh, it's okay. It's okay. I won't yell anymore. But I can't leave you alone right now. I'm afraid for you, if you won't tell me what's wrong - I'm afraid you'll try to hurt yourself again, and I can't risk that. Come here, Kathryn. Everything is going to be alright," he murmured, in the softest voice he knew how to use. Much to his surprise, she did, kneeling down only a foot or two away from him.

Every time she looked like she was about to explain herself, she grimaced and stayed silent. Finally, after what seemed like a hundred tries, she finally whispered, "Lonely. I'm lonely. There's no one but you and Cliath. No one to talk to except you, and you're - sometimes when you g-get mad, you - so I don't want you to know - but you haven't - but you might, I don't know. I don't want to make you mad, or you might - and when you know things, you use - I'm sorry."

She feared the Scarecrow, even still? And that was why she refused to talk to him? Then this was more his fault than he had anticipated. "But why would you try to kill yourself?" That was still a complete mystery to him. Loneliness should not make anybody suicidal, not unless they were literally isolated from everyone, both physically and mentally.

"I - everything makes me hurt. It makes me upset, no matter what happens. It hurt too much - I couldn't take it anymore. Will you make it better, please? I can't be happy anymore, you have to make it go away, please, I can't - I need you, daddy, I need help, I need help. Please," she gasped, all of a sudden clinging to him for dear life. That was what he represented for her now - life. Without him, she would … it was impossible to make himself think of what would happen. How had it come to this? How had he become the rock holding her out of a tumultuous sea, the tether tying her down to Earth?

His lip shook as he sat down beside her, saying, "It's okay. I'll make it better. I'll help you. You don't have to hide from me anymore, okay? You can tell me how you feel. I'll make all the bad things go away." Whatever was destroying her in such a way, he would most certainly take care of it.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: And now we're back to starting with the author's note - it just seems wrong to wait until the end. I keep tearing up writing this story for the most random reasons - like right now - because I'm just that ridiculous. Plus, Ouran High School Host Club can be pretty sad at times, and I'm watching it right now. If you haven't seen it, watch it. Even if you don't like anime. It is awesome. Keep your eye out, by the way, for at some point I'm planning to dip into Ouran fanfic writing. Yay!**

She fell asleep there on his lap, her fingers tangled in his clothing and her face pressed into his stomach as hard as she could possibly manage. Even though it pained him to sit as he did, he was afraid to move and wake her up, for sleep seemed to be the best thing for Kathryn at the moment. In sleep, her life was peaceful, free of troubles or pain, free of the damage he had caused her.

Christ, he had to stop blaming himself. Everything he had done was in an attempt to help her - anything bad was just … side effects. But without him, none of this would have happened.

No. He had been helping her, and he would help her now. It was his duty as her psychiatrist and as her father. No matter whether it was his fault or not; he had to make everything better. But how? 'Everything' was a tall order, and Crane had never been very good with people in the first place. Oh, he was able to figure out their problems and heal their minds and what have you, but really _helping_ someone, dragging them out of the depths, fixing a girl that had been torn to shreds and making it seem as if nothing had been wrong in the first place, now that was difficult.

It was, by his estimation, almost an hour before she stirred and rolled off of his lap, once again onto her wounded arm. Before she could even make a noise, he had picked her back up and put a hand behind her head. "Do you want some ibuprofen?" Weakly, she nodded.

"Come on, we'll go get some." Trying to move slowly so as not to shake her, he stood and carried her out into his bedroom, where she was settled on the bed while he dialed the combination on the lock. Tapping out the minimum dose for an adult - her light weight and constant drowsy, nauseous state made him afraid to give her a larger dose, regardless of how much pain she was in - was a quick process, and he handed her a pill. Before he ran out to get a glass of water, he locked the bottle in the drawer of his bedside table.

"Okay, here you are," he stated after giving her water. She took the pill and clenched her stomach tightly as it went down. Obviously, she was still hurting even while her arm was still. "Now, let's go celebrate!"

"Celebrate what? I don't feel like celebrating. I feel like curling up in a hole," she mumbled. For a moment she looked as if she was going to attempt to leave, but she swiftly reconsidered and instead grasped his hand tightly with both of hers.

"It is still your birthday, after all." Maybe doing something fun might cheer her up a bit until he was able to get her a different medication, which could be tomorrow or as late as next week, depending on how efficient the pharmacists at Arkham decided to be. Yes, he could get the prescriptions filled somewhere else, but it was easier to get them at his office.

With a moan, she let go of his hand for a moment. "What are we gonna do? Nothing too much, right?" she mumbled. To that, he nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"I was thinking we could just sit and play cards, or watch a movie, something like that. Does that sound good?" Apparently she didn't want to, by the look on her face, but she nodded anyways. "Okay, just sit here for two seconds while I go get some cards," he told her. Once it was confirmed that she would be alright by herself, since he wasn't in the mood to carry her downstairs, he hurried into the living room and started digging around for a deck.

_What would you do without her, huh, Jonny-boy?_

Oh, no. Not now. He could not handle this now. "Just leave me alone, Scarecrow. This isn't the time."

Scarecrow didn't much care for that; his disgust radiated through Crane's mind. _Come on. You've kept me locked up for weeks in here! Isn't it my turn to take charge for once?_

"Never. Now, I've got things to do, so just get out," he snapped. There was a torrent of dark laughter.

_Afraid I'll scare her too much? Come on, Jonny. She's gonna see the real world sometime. Why not let me ease the journey, make it a little -_

"No." With great mental effort he shoved the Scarecrow away, deep into the recesses of his mind, where the only sound he could hear from his alter was a stream of chuckling. Finally, his hands closed on a box of cards, and he clambered up the stairs quickly.

"Are you alright?" he called before coming in. Seeing her tucked into a ball on his bed, shuddering and moaning, was no longer a shock to him in any way. "It's okay. I'm here. Come on, don't be sad." Once Kathryn heard his voice, her spirits seemed to lift, and she sat up with a half-smile.

"Alright, what card game should we play?" She probably knew plenty more games than he did, as his childhood experience with cards was mostly limited to solitaire. After a moment's pondering, she grinned an honest smile.

"Let's play Mao!" That was certainly not one he'd heard of before - Mao as in Mao Zedong, former chairman of China, that Mao? When he asked how to play, though, she just smiled wider and snatched the cards from him using her good hand. "The only thing I can tell you is that you have to get rid of your cards to win. I'll give you penalties if you play wrong. You'll figure out the rest."

Oh, joy. This was one of _those_ games. He'd been vaguely introduced to a game like this at school - it was called Scissors, and he had never figured out exactly what the secret to it was, because the penalty for a wrong answer was a punch to the head, and everyone else knew exactly how to play.

At first he was confused when he didn't hear any noises like shuffling, but he soon realized that she was struggling to open the box of cards with one hand, as any movement of her wrist most likely pulled her stitches. "Give it here. How many cards do I deal?" Too focused on running her fingers absently over her bandage, she just lifted her hand and held up five fingers.

Quickly, he shuffled and dealt out two hands of five cards each, leaving the rest of the deck between them on the bed. After some awkward jiggling and prodding, Kathryn was able to scoop up her cards and stick them between the motionless fingers of her left hand. "The game of Mao is begun," she announced, flipping the top card on the deck over - a ten of spades.

"Six of spades." She put down the card in question and smiled, nodding toward him.

"Do you have to announce every card, or is-"

"No talking." And she handed him the card from the top of the deck.

After a short pause, she handed him another card. "Failure to say 'thank you'."

Another pause passed. "Continued failure to say thank you." And another card.

"Thank you!" he exclaimed, and the cards stopped coming.

"Failure to say queen of spades," she scolded, handing him another card - he got yet another penalty before saying 'thank you' - and playing the queen of clubs. Another facet to the rules, but he had now picked up what he thought was the basic play mechanic. To test his theory, he played the six of clubs and looked at her expectantly.

A pleasant nod as she drew a card and played it - the eight of clubs. Having no idea why she drew, he just played the nine of clubs and shrugged. Another card drawn into her hand, but this time, she didn't play. Ah, so that was how it worked, and upon realizing this, he smiled to himself before playing the jack of clubs. It was the jack of hearts that faced him next, and he played the ten of that suit. Queen of hearts from her, two of hearts from him. He flashed his one remaining card glibly.

"Failure to say Mao." He received another penalty card.

"Thank you. This game is completely idiotic -"

"No talking." Yet another penalty, and another thanks. If it weren't for the fact that she looked happier than she'd been in weeks, he would have put the cards away right then and there. After playing the eight of hearts, she called "Mao!" quite cheerfully.

"Eight of spades." Frustration was beginning to well up at the impossibility of this game, but she drew a card before he could call out and receive another penalty.

"Three of spades," he sighed as he drew a card and played it. At least Crane was quite quick on the uptake when it came to logical problems like this game - although some of the rules so far were quite illogical.

Since she was unable to play, he drew another card, as did Kathryn. Finally, after several pointless turns, Crane played out the four of spades absently.

"Failure to say 'four of spades'." He grumbled a thank you and accepted his card unwillingly. The four of hearts came next, and he played the ace, to which she responded with the five, leaving him unable to play. On the five of clubs, he put out the ace, then the ace of diamonds when she couldn't play. She put out the six, and him the seven.

"Failure to say 'have a nice day'." Another penalty.

"What?! This is stupid!"

"Failure to say thank you. No talking." Two cards.

"Thank you," he moaned, cradling his head in his hands. This game was getting rapidly irritating.

When he played the two of diamonds, his second-to-last card, he remembered to say 'mao', for once avoiding a penalty. She played the jack, and he the king. "Mao," she said teasingly.

"I win! That game is ridicu-"

"Failure to say 'I am the king of Mao, and thus, the game is ended." After a pause - "Failure to say Mao. Failure to say 'thank you'. No talking. Failure to say thank you. Failure to say thank you."

Before she could get any farther, he muttered 'thank you' several times and took the sizeable stack of penalty cards placed before him. With that, she won. "King of spades. I am the king of Mao, and thus, the game is ended," she announced triumphantly.

"What a stupid game."

**A/N: If you figured out how to play Mao from this transcript of a real-fake game I just played, pat yourself on the back and send me a message with what you think the rules are. Don't cheat! I'll know if you cheat because my rules are slightly different. If you already knew how to play, don't spoil it for anyone. This chapter was sort of useless birthday-fluff, but I was bored and this was a quick thing to write, so maybe another chapter tonight. I'm not sure.**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: This chapter is being a real bear and I'm only a paragraph in. I don't know why I'm having trouble writing but it's obnoxious. And by the way, that pre-written chapter I mentioned? I'm scrapping it. I have a much more dramatic chapter in mind, although it will take a wee bit of plot retooling to get it perfectly right, but I think you all will enjoy it more! It's also a tiny bit more - not more logical, because both plots work about the same in terms of logic, but when it comes to what's been written so far, this idea just fits better. Ah, what I do for readers. Sacrificing over an hour's work just make things a bit more exciting. You owe me some reviews - except for Dragonfly2224, who reviews every chapter and is amazing.**

**OH and guess what I just realized? It turns out that seroxat is the brand of paroxetine sold in the UK, not the US. Who thinks it's worth it to change that in every chapter so far? I don't! Maybe if I get bored, I'll change it, but just wanted to let you know that I do acknowledge the mistake.**

"It hurts," she mumbled, tugging on his sleeve. Once they had finished their game - Crane was frustrated by the outcome, and although she asked repeatedly to play again, he refused to shuffle the cards for her, so it was a moot point - Kathryn had sprawled out on the floor with a pillow off of the couch, warmed by the setting sun as it shone through the sliding glass door. Instead of moving her and risking disturbing her arm, he brought a blanket from upstairs and draped it over her. Now that she was waking up, she seemed quite distressed by something.

"What's wrong? Is it your cut? Do you want some more ibuprofen?" Slowly, she shook her head and used one hand to push herself to a sitting position.

"Inside. Hurts inside." Apparently, she was back to her child-state, and the difference was worse than before, but whether the switch was caused by pain or tiredness, he didn't know.

Running his fingers through her hair, he murmured, "Where inside does it hurt?" Her head rubbed emphatically against his hand, like a cat, and she made a very satisfied sighing noise.

"Lonely. But s'better now," she explained, with another contented sigh. The answers she was providing were far from logical, but what else was he to expect? He certainly knew her well enough by now to know that she wasn't at her most reasonable when just waking up, but this was a bit much.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright? You don't need any more ibuprofen? Oh, hold on, we forgot your medicine this morning. Let me get it for you." Hurrying up the stairs, he quickly unlocked the drawer and got her pills, then went back downstairs to get a glass of water. She had a pillow in her arms and was snuggling it like a teddy bear, ignoring Cliath at her feet.

When Crane went into the kitchen, the puppy followed him to get her meal. "You're possibly the nicest dog I have ever met, you know that?" He ruffled Cliath's ears for a moment, then went back out to Kathryn with a glass of water in one hand and pills in the other.

"Here you go." After a moment, she released the pillow and took her medications. "There we are, that should make you feel better. Now, I need you to do something for me, okay?" he told her, to which she nodded, confused.

"I need to get you a different medicine, one that shouldn't make you feel as bad. But you have to come with me to get it. We're going to go to Arkham. I want you to stay with me, alright? We're just going to the pharmacy and then coming straight home. Okay? Does that sound good?"

"Okay." Surprising - he had been expecting more of a fight, but maybe she wanted to get better more than she wanted to stay home and be comparatively safe - in her opinion, anyways, it was safer in his house than at Arkham, even though she had tried to commit suicide and there was still a risk that he would hurt her. There was never any toxin in the house, though, he made sure of that. It stayed at work where it belonged.

God, that sentence was so illogical, even when he knew exactly why the toxin 'belonged' at work. Saying anything toxic 'belonged' anywhere other than a toxic waste dump was beginning to strike him as unreasonable. But it was far too late for him to give up his experiments; they were too fascinating to him. Watching the mind give way to fear, seeing what really made people scream, that was more precious than gold.

But was it more precious than Kathryn's safety? That he didn't know, and he wasn't sure when he would be able to answer that question. "Alright, go get changed. Your clothes are all … dirty," he noted, allowing himself to stop asking himself things he knew he couldn't figure out. When reminded of the dried blood covering her shirt and pants, she stood up dizzily and scrambled up the stairs with one hand out in front of her to balance herself.

He followed, bemused, to make sure nothing went wrong. While there was little chance she'd be able to - or want to - cause any damage willingly while simply changing her clothes, with such a huge wound, she might cause unintentional pain or further injury. "You alright in there?" Crane called after a few silent minutes. Normally, it didn't take her nearly this long to get ready, at least, it didn't take her this long when she was only getting changed.

When she didn't reply, he immediately opened the door, and was immensely relieved to see her slumbering on the large bed she was still unwilling to sleep in at night. There was a pillow between her arms that looked as if it would have been suffocated, had it been an animal. Perhaps he should invest in a teddy bear, to prevent her from doing something similar to the complacent Cliath. It was a well known fact between the two of them that the small pup wasn't much of a fighter, even when Kathryn was holding her on her back while they watched a movie.

"Come on, dear, we need to go," he murmured. It only took a light tap on the shoulder for her to awaken and sit up blearily. Odd, how he'd been intermittently calling her 'dear' in the past few weeks. It wasn't an entirely unwelcome development, as the word felt very natural when applied to his patient-turned-daughter, although he never thought that he would call anyone 'dear', regardless of the context.

"I'm sleepy. Can't I just sleep?" As she spoke, Kathryn was being guided down the stairs with a firm hand under each elbow, since every step she took seemed unsteady with exhaustion and unwillingness. "No, you said we hadda go. And we're just goin' to get some new pills that won't make me bad. Right?" He affirmed what she said, and both of them stepped out the front door, her in flip flops, a t-shirt and the baggy pants she'd worn on the day she'd left Arkham, him in his trademark suit, tie, and dress shoes. They were an odd pair, to be sure.

Once in the car, she slumped in the passenger seat, as close to lying down as one could manage in a small car like Crane's. However, she didn't fall asleep once during the half-hour car ride into the Narrows, not that he could see. When he asked her why, she said simply that she didn't want to sleep. Curious and curiouser.

"Okay, we're here. Let's make this quick." Together they hurried up the steps and into the building.

It was only a second before Lea ran up. "Oh, Kathryn, are you alright? What happened to your arm?" she exclaimed.

"N-n-nothing," Kathryn replied, ducking behind Crane in a very obvious fashion. Although Lea looked like she wanted to say more, Crane hurried Kathryn out of the lobby and down the short maze of hallways that got them to the pharmacy. Murphy was inside again, this time setting up cups of pills for patients at dinner.

"I need twenty milligram tablets of seroxat - enough for a month. Oh, and Murphy, this is Kathryn." Shyly, Kathryn nodded and sat down near the door. When Murphy didn't stop what he was doing, Crane hurriedly began pawing through the shelves in search of seroxat. "Hey, hey, you can't do that! Just give me a minute, I'll get it for you!" Murphy moaned. After filling one more cup, he followed Crane deep into the back of the pharmacy and pulled him away.

"Here you are," Murphy barked after a few minutes, handing Crane a bottle fairly filled with pills. Crane snatched it from his hands and made his way back to the door, only to find that Kathryn had gone missing. "Kathryn! Kathryn! Where are you?" Crane hollered as he ran out frantically into the lobby.

"Lea, did Kathryn come by here in the past few minutes?" Lea shook her head, clearly confused by his urgency, and he hurried back in the other direction. Once he was deep in the hallways that housed the inmates, a familiar laugh clued him in, and he turned down the nearest hall.

"Really? You robbed a _bank_? That's so cool! Did you get caught?" she giggled.

"Well, of course I did, kidlet. Otherwise I wouldn't be in here." Instead of interrupting, since she seemed to be enjoying herself, Crane hid behind the corner and poked his head out. Her hands and face were pressed against the door, so that she was able to see whoever was imprisoned within.

"What are you doing here, anyways? It's not everyday we get such a beautiful young lady visiting us," the man within the cell chuckled.

"Oh, my daddy's just getting my new medication and I got bored waiting for him, so I wanted to see who was down here. I never got to look around when I stayed here. What is your name?"

"You're telling me that _you _were in Arkham? A sweet little thing like you? What did you do, kick your teacher in the shins? Oh, and it's Jack."

"No, I have a panic thing. What about you - musta done something other than rob a bank, right?"

"Well, the fact that I wrote my name on the wall with the blood of one of the tellers sort of clued them in."

"Uh … that's … p-pleasant, I guess. Why would you do that?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. You know what that's like, don't you? I mean, talking to me seemed like it was a good idea, right? And now you're having second thoughts. You're adorable when you're scared! Like a bunny looking down the barrel of a gun. Are you wondering if I'm going to pull the trigger? Well, are you?" There was a pause. "Come on now, dearie, it's only polite to speak when someone asks you a question."

"Uh - uh - n-n-n-n-n-no. I g-g-g-gotta g-g-go…"

"Oh, that's right. Your daddy's waiting for you, isn't he? Wonder who he is." At that point, Crane thought it was probably a good idea to reveal his presence.

"That would be me. Come on, Kathryn, time to go home," he snapped, walking up to the door to make sure Jack was able to see exactly who it was.

"Oh, Dr. Crane! I didn't know you had a daughter! She's a real sweetheart, that one. Keep her near and dear, if you know what I mean!" Jack let out a loud cackle, and Crane hurried Kathryn away from the door. The girl was shuddering and pressing herself against his side.

"C-can we come back to visit him sometime?" she asked quietly.

"Why would you want to come back? Doesn't he scare you?" Crane replied.

"But it made him happy."

Her logic was so ridiculous sometimes.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: EvilIguanaProduction's videos on Youtube are incredibly distracting. They do spoofs of trailers of popular movies, and although the movies have already come out, it's almost more hilarious to watch them now. GO WATCH. The Twilight and Dark Knight are very hilarious. ANYWAYS. So, yeah, that last chapter was a little bit weird, I know, but I sort of enjoyed the fact that she has an awkward kindred relationship with a patient in an insane asylum. It makes me giddy. And I'm beginning to get really frustrated with stutters, since they're sort of a pain to write quickly. But too late to change it now, and I do like the effect.**

**IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT! I'm leaving today to go to my grandparents' for a week, and I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update. Just wanted to let you all know.**

Once they were outside, Crane took Kathryn by the shoulders. "What on earth were you thinking? The patients here are dangerous, not to mention the fact that you were alone. Why would you run off like that?" he exclaimed.

"I was b-bored. Please don't be mad, I'm sorry." She was chewing on her lower lip nervously and fighting against his grip. "Just wanted to l-look around, see who was there. That was my old r-room, I was wondering who you p-put in there. I'm sorry." Beneath his hands, he could feel her beginning to shudder and shake nervously, so he began rubbing her upper arms soothingly.

"Look, I'm not mad at you. I just think you were disregarding your safety in doing what you did." Then again, he couldn't exactly say that he wasn't expecting her to do anything unsafe for the rest of the day, after what happened that morning. Would he let her back to visit this 'Jack' character, whoever he was? Probably not, and if he decided to, it wouldn't be allowed until he had done extensive research on the man.

They drove home, and Kathryn told him that she was going to sleep in her own room tonight. He didn't put much stock into what she'd said, as it was the fourth or fifth time she'd tried of her own will. It never lasted long, and besides, there was a chance that it was too early for her to go to sleep.

After a quick dinner - frozen pierogies and mixed vegetables - she went upstairs and disappeared. Whether she fell asleep or not was anyone's guess, but there was over an hour and a half of silence when Crane was able to read two iterations of _Jurassic Park_.

Suddenly there was a loud wail, one that could only be attached to someone waking up from a nightmare - the noise was quite familiar to him, as his screams often continued for up to a minute after waking. She was sitting bolt upright on the bed, with a blanket pulled up to her nose, when he had scrambled up the stairs and reached her room. "What did you dream about?" he asked.

"J-j-j-j … it w-was … h-h-h-he … J-j-j-j-j-jack …" He should have known that such a traumatizing experience would transfer into her subconscious.

"It's okay. You're at home, Jack didn't do anything."

"But he d-d-d-did! He w-was h-h-h-here, and h-h-he - y-y-you too, y-you h-h-had the other g-g-g-gun …" The other gun? So she was dreaming about Jack with a gun? What a miserable day for both of them - he could hardly name all the miserable things that had occurred, and now he had to try and calm her enough for her to go back to sleep. When one woke up screaming, though, it was usually quite hard to sleep again for at least twenty minutes, as he well knew.

"I don't have a gun, Kathryn." Obviously.

"Y-y-y-yes, you d-d-d-did, and h-he told y-y-you to s-s-sh-shoot m-m-me and y-you were g-g-g-g-going to…" Burying herself under the blankets, she started to moan quietly. Crane gently peeled back the comforter, even though she repeatedly tried to pull it back.

"N-n-n-n-no, y-you're going t-t-t-to s-s-sh-shoot m-me! H-he t-t-told y-you to, he t-t-turned me into a b-b-bun- a r-r-r-rabbit and h-he - s-s-s-smiled - b-b-b-bloody - n-n-n-no, d-daddy, n-no, n-no m-m-m-more! D-d-don't - n-n-no, p-please, J-j-jack, t-t-tell h-him n-not t-t-t-to, d-d-don't m-make him d-d-do it!" Clearly she was having some sort of waking dream or hallucination, so deep into her own mind that he was unable to drag her back no matter how many times he shook her shoulder.

"L-let g-g-go, d-d-d-daddy, n-no, d-d-don't d-do it! S-s-s-stop it!" Finally, he picked her up and laid her out on his lap.

"Come on, wake up, Kathryn. It's not real. No one is going to hurt you. You're hallucinating," he insisted, and the force of his shakings tossed her halfway into the air.

"N-n-n-n-n-n- o-o-o-oh, s-stop, d-d-don't h-hurt - n-n-n-n-n- …" Her jerky movements were beginning to settle down, although she continued to flail weakly against the lanky arms that held her tightly down.

"It's not real, Kathryn. Jack isn't here, and no one is hurting you. There are no guns. There is no blood. Calm down. I'm here, you're okay," he murmured. After another minute of minor struggling, she finally began taking breaths at a more normal pace.

"W-where is h-he? H-he was n-n-never here, w-was he? I'm s-sorry, I'm s-sorry. But he _was_ here. No, n-not here, but he w-was … What happened? Wh-what's wrong with me?" She paused for a moment, and pressed her face into his hand, which had been keeping her head from snapping too harshly upwards. "I have to g-go see him."

At first, he was unable to even respond. "What? You can't honestly tell me that you want to talk to a man who frightened you to the point of causing hallucinations? There's no possible reason that you could convince me to let you do that."

Clearly, she didn't like to hear that, since she attempted to sit up, but he kept her pinned. "I have to m-make sure he w-wou- wouldn't - you wouldn't d-do that, would you?" How many times would he have to affirm the fact that he wasn't planning on wounding, maiming or killing her any time soon?

"No, I wouldn't, and Jack can't - he's locked up at Arkham, where people like him belong. What makes you think that I'm willing to let that man anywhere near you? It's not good for you to be exposed to stressful situations. Go back to sleep and we'll talk in the morning, alright?" Really, he wasn't in the mood to deal with this sort of thing, not after the day he'd had.

"But I'll have another n-nightmare -"

"Just go to sleep, Kathryn! Close your eyes, shut your mouth, and sleep!" he snapped, instantly regretting his loss of composure as she began prying his fingers from her head and shoulder with futile desperation. When she wasn't able to get away from him that way, she rolled out of his grasp and all but dove under the bed.

"Come out here right now." Of course she didn't, so he reached in and fanned his arm around until he had a grip on her upper arm. Dragging her out was a quick but not painless process, as she landed several bites on his arm and dragged her stubby, jagged nails across his skin.

_Tsk, tsk. Is that how a father should treat his daughter? I'm ashamed of you, really, Jonny. I thought you were supposed to be the perfect daddy to the broken little girl. She might be better off in her real home, did you think about that?_

**Not now, not now, any time but now -**

"Hey, kitty! Don't cry. Come on out, daddy's here." Pity how she had forgotten what the sharp and grating overtones in his voice signified. She'd learn it all over again soon enough, but still, it was funny to hear her shuffling forward, until she was curled up halfway on his lap. Taking memories from Crane's mind, he began stroking her hair, with one small change - his nails were digging into her scalp hard enough to draw little drops of blood.

"Ow, ow, s-stop that!" She tried to get off his lap, although that was a bit difficult for her when he had five fingers tangled in her hair and five wrapping around her neck. "W-what are you d-d-doing?" she gasped.

"Come on, kitty. I just want to have some fun, and Jonny is _so_ overprotective."

**Don't you dare hurt her! Don't - no, for Christ's sake, don't do that!**

"Don't do what? _This_?" And he tore off her bandages in one swift movement, running his fingers up and down her stitches. Oh, how he loved to hear her scream!

**Let her go, Scarecrow. You've had your fun.**

"What's wrong? You can't tell me that you don't just love to hear that sound," Scarecrow purred as he continued to stroke the massive gash on her arm. Every time she tried to pull away, he pressed a nail down roughly, eliciting a screech.

**Let her go.**

"No, I don't think so. I think maybe we'll go get her friend Jack from Arkham, huh? What do you think of that, kitty cat?"

She didn't answer, and he pinched her cut repeatedly, until she gasped, "N-n-no!"

"But I thought you wanted to see him! I thought you wanted to make sure he wasn't going to hurt you - that _Daddy_ wasn't going to hurt you. Well, he won't. You don't have to worry about that. I don't know about me, though…" Another beautiful scream as he tapped his fingers up and down her arm.

**Come on. Enough is enough**.

_You're such a fucking weakling, Jonny-boy. If you want her back, you have to take her. You should know that by now. I thought you were stronger than this - okay, so I didn't, but I thought you'd have more power over me by now than just whining._

"D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-daddy?" It took her so long to stammer out that one word that he yawned loudly.

"N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no, I'm afraid that Daddy's out of touch for the moment. But we can have some fun while he's gone, can't we?" His fingers traced the line of her jaw slowly, but then shook, as Crane managed to control at least one part of their body.

_**My**_** body, Scarecrow. You're an unwelcome squatter.**

"Oh, no, this is my body as much as yours, Jonny-boy. What makes you think that you can just stick in your flag and lay claim to it? I've been here just as long as you have."

"W-w-w-w-wh-wh-wh-what's w-w-w-wrong? Who are y-y-you t-t-t-t-talking t-t-to?" she whispered, trying to hold back a scream as he pinched her arm.

"Oh, nothing's wrong. Our friend Dr. Crane just doesn't want me to have any fun, that's all." Here Scarecrow pouted his full lips in a remarkably accurate portrayal of a cast-off teenage girl.

"Now come here, girlie, and let's have some fun…"

**A/N: Cliffie! That's only so I can get something posted at all tonight. At my grandparents right now and I've just not had time to write. Sorry guys! Updates will be slow for the next few weeks due to various trips and stays with grandparents on both sides, but I will at least get up one chapter a week, I promise you that. Sorry, again! D:**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Reviewers make me giggle! No, seriously, I read some of the more recent reviews and I literally made 'hee-hee' noises. I went to the zoo today, and the National Zoo is pretty badass, even if it is under construction right now for the new elephant trail (which will be massively awe-inspiringly awesome). I also gave five dollars to an overly charismatic out-of-work individual who may or may not have been homeless, but ehh, I had change and I'm a sucker. Anyway, onto the chapter! I'm doing the AN beforehand, again, so I don't know what's going to happen next, but I'm glad you guys liked Kathryn's new friend and the cliffhanger! Oh, and I hope that I haven't horribly skewed the relationship between Jonathan and the Scarecrow - I never read any of the comics, so my information is based purely on the personalities that I've put together for the two of them and how I feel they'll interact.**

Somehow, she managed to slither from his grasp and out into the hall, but that didn't last long. A firm hand smacked down on her ankle, yanking her back into the bedroom and slamming the door shut. "Oh, no you don't, kitty. I haven't finished my game yet, have I? I want you to just sit right down on the floor there and don't move. I have to go get something." If she did run and hide, at least she wouldn't get out of the house, since she wasn't at her most lucid and didn't like to be alone. It was comforting to know that he now had a little toy locked up in his house that he could play with as long as he wanted to.

**She's not your toy, Scarecrow. Go back there and make sure she's okay.**

"Make me, Jonny! I know you have it in you … or you used to, anyways. This girl has just taken all the fight out of you," he remarked as he walked out the front door and settled behind the wheel of Jonny's car. Although it pained him to admit it, the car really didn't belong to him.

"Now, you'll have to help me with this. I haven't driven in a while, and I don't quite remember how everything works."

**What makes you think I'll help you now?**

"Do you want to die in a fiery accident and leave your precious daughter all alone?" He paused. "No, I didn't think so. Now, gas is left and brake is right. We stick the key in here and turn it once, twice." Then he revved the engine a few times. "Now we put it in reverse … you gotta do this part, Jonny. I always sucked at backing up."

**I hate you.**

"But you are backing away from your house and driving me toward Arkham, aren't you?"

Jonny stopped driving then, slamming on the brakes as hard as he could when he only controlled their feet. **What do you need at Arkham?**

"Just wanted to get Kitty some medicine. You know how that is, right, Jonny? I just want to make her all better." That wasn't entirely true. Or at all true. But then, when did Scarecrow ever care what his other half felt? As long as Jonny was alive and kicking, he could be screaming and thrashing as long as Scarecrow got what he wanted. Jonny was basically just a tool he used for interaction with people, since people skills and driving were the two things Scarecrow didn't have experience in.

**I'm not your tool.**

"Oh, yes you are. Don't try to deny the truth."

**What are you going to do to my daughter?** By the choked, stuttering, half-formed words Jonny was spitting out, he could see Scarecrow's plan clearly and he didn't much care for it. Well, of course he didn't like it. Jonny didn't want anything to harm his little girl. What a pansy.

"Oh, nothing special. Just what we do to all of your patients that don't show improvement. And she really hasn't, especially not lately. Attempting suicide isn't exactly a sign of a healthy mind. Wouldn't you agree?" Scarecrow chuckled. This was certainly going to be fun - he could play with Kitty and Jonny at the same time, with no extra effort on his part. Life was good when you had toys.

**Why do you torture me?** He sounded quite desperate now, with something like tears in his voice. Oh, fuck. He could deal with Angry Jonny, and Numb Jonny, and Violent Jonny, but Crying Jonny was always the most difficult. He got all whiny and needy when he cried.

**You have no idea what this is like.**

"Oh, I don't? You keep me locked up as much as you can possibly manage. How is this any different from what I go through every day? Fair is fair." Served him fucking right. Maybe if Jonny knew just what this felt like, he would be kinder to Scarecrow in the future.

**This is my body, not yours, and it is my right to want my body for my own.** The man sounded like a cat who'd just knocked a pitcher of water on itself and was trying to pretend that he'd done it on purpose.

"Much as I enjoy our thrilling intellectual discussions, I have to stop you, because we're here, and it might be a bit odd for me to be walking down the halls shouting at myself," Scarecrow snapped. That did shut him up, for Jonny liked their job even more than Scarecrow did. Something about 'helping people'. It was a load of shit, because Jonny liked hearing the screams as much as he did, but whatever made him feel all warm and fuzzy.

Scarecrow walked up to the doors and threw them open, but when Lea expressed concern, he didn't respond. There were more important things to be done right now, he noted as he rushed to his office and pulled his mask out of the drawer. Oh, how nice the burlap felt between his fingers. Jonny hadn't let him out with the patients since he'd taken his little girl home. Maybe he was afraid that Scarecrow might take over at home as well as at work.

There was a full canister of toxin in the drawer as well, and he pulled that out, slipping it smoothly onto his wrist. Now he felt complete again. But he needed to hide the mask until he got into the car. The suit he wore had a pocket in it they used just for this purpose. The burlap stayed in his pocket until Jonny parked - remarkably smoothly for someone who was alternating between screeching inhumanly and crying like a little girl - outside the house.

"Home again, home again, jiggity jig," Scarecrow sang, stepping out of the car and waltzing up to the front door. It was locked, just like he'd left it, so she must still be in the house somewhere. But where she had decided to hide was anyone's guess.

Every few seconds, Jonny would manage to take control of a limb or two, and they would trip and flail. It was easy enough for Scarecrow to wrest them back, but he really wished that they didn't have to fight over it. "Just ten minutes. Ten minutes and then you can take her back to Arkham to get the antidote."

**You didn't get it? Damn it, Scarecrow, how could you be so completely stupid? I can't take her on the streets when she's like that and I can't leave her alone! You are - fuck.**

"It's called bargaining, sweetheart. If you don't mess with me for ten minutes, I'll let you take her to Arkham. Otherwise, she stays here for another hour or two. How do you like that?" It was a brilliant strategy, really. Fortunately he had been able to keep Jonny distracted enough that he didn't notice when Scarecrow conveniently 'forgot' the canister that held the antidote. Really, he ought to get more credit.

**Get it over with, then.** Ooh, how defeated he sounded! Truly lovely.

"Kitty? Come on out, kitty cat, I've got a treat for you. I think you'll like it," he called, tramping through the house with intentionally loud footsteps. That ought to frighten her out, or at least make her move to a new hiding spot, wherever she was.

The child couldn't be less original if it killed her. She was in the closet, as she'd been many times before, and that made it impossible for her to escape when Scarecrow's silhouette blocked the light that flowed through the open door.

After turning on the mechanism inside and slipping the mask on, he knelt down to stroke her hair. "I've brought some medicine for you. Now be a good girl and take deep breaths, okay, Kitty?" He sprayed a large cloud over her, and she instantly started pawing at her face.

"How do you feel now? Do you feel better yet?" She just wailed, loudly enough to piss him off. Jonny was biting his figurative fingernails, and he clearly wanted to fight back, but they both knew that Scarecrow would make true on what he had said earlier.

"S-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-scarecrow…" she whispered. Triumphantly, he clapped right in front of her face, startling her enough to make her smack her head against the wall behind her. Something had finally replaced her father as top of the fear list, and it just happened to be Scarecrow. How fortunate that he was here, with - he checked his watch - seven minutes to spare.

"Yes, Scarecrow's here. I want you to say my name," he snarled. She shook her head.

"Say it! Say my name! Say who I am!" Again, she shook her head. Today seemed to be a day of bad decisions for her.

"If you don't say it, I'll pull out your stitches, one by one." Finally, she picked her head up for a moment, eyes wild and leery with panic.

"S-s-s-s-s-s-s-scarecrow." With that, she fell to screaming and shaking, while Scarecrow ran his fingers up and down her back, across the still-oozing scrapes on her scalp, down her jaw and neck, sliding over her chest. That was all it took. Those little touches were enough to make her buck and writhe. This was almost too easy.

**Your ten minutes are up.**

As soon as he was able, Jonathan pulled the mask off, picked Kathryn up and flew out the door. It was admittedly rather difficult to run with a fourteen-year-old child in one's arms - doubly challenging when said child was trying her hardest to get away - but adrenaline was a miraculous thing, and he managed to buckle her into the backseat. To make sure she wouldn't fall off the seat, he laid her legs out on the long seat and buckled the far belt over her ankles.

Driving was even tougher, since he had to reach back every few moments to push her back onto the seat. They did make it, though, and he took her up to this office without so much as a glance at his surroundings. She was given the antidote as soon as he found it.

Unfortunately, the fact that she was no longer being poisoned did almost nothing to halt her panic. If anything, it made her even more desperate to escape, diving for the door once she had stopped her mad flailing. "Kathryn, calm down. No one is going to hurt you." She seemed to think that he was about to kill her, and he was quite glad that he had locked the door when he dragged her into the room.

"Y-y-y-y-you're n-n-not h-him, a- y-you're n-n-n-not, r-right?" she stammered between sobs and whimpers. Finally, she had understood that he and Scarecrow were two different entities. Slowly, he stepped toward her with his hands outstretched, nodding as an answer to her question. Although she made no move to approach him, Kathryn didn't run until he was mere inches away.

"It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Are you feeling alright?" he murmured in his softest voice. She shook her head and slid further into the corner she was attempting to hide in. "What's wrong? What hurts?"

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"No."

"You have to tell me more than that."

"No."

"Kathryn, I can't stop the bad things unless you tell me what's hurting you."

"No."

Sometimes, she was so infuriatingly stubborn. While there was logic in the fact that she didn't want to talk to him, after what had happened (Scarecrow laughed darkly and loudly just thinking about it), she admitted that she was feeling bad and wouldn't allow him to do anything about it. "The Scarecrow is gone. He's not going to hurt you."

"No." With that, she held her hand over her mouth and began making retching noises. It didn't seem like she was going to throw up, but she certainly looked like she wanted to. "No," she mumbled from between her fingers.

"If you're going to throw up, come here and do it in the trash can instead of on the carpet. The janitors won't be in until tomorrow and I don't want my office to smell like vomit." And she did shuffle over to the trash can, remarkably, allowing Crane to put an arm over her shoulder for nearly thirty seconds.

"No, no - hurts, don't touch," she mumbled. At least she was saying more than one word as she shuffled away.

"I'll make it stop hurting, if you'll just come here." She wasn't buying it.

"You hurt."

"No, that wasn't me. That was Scarecrow."

"No." Back to one word replies.

"It wasn't me. I'm sorry you're hurt, but I want to make it better. You have to come here." How many times was he going to have to ask her? His patience would most likely wear out before her resolve did.

"Don't wanna. You make hurts." The childlike syntax was difficult to decode, but he figured it out after a moment.

"I didn't hurt you. Scarecrow hurt you."

"You S-s-s-s-s- - you hurt." So she really hadn't set the two identities apart, or if she had, the girl had forgotten between then and now.

"No, I didn't hurt you."

"Pinch - scratch - you pinch, you make hurts. No like."

He had had enough of this. Ignoring her wails, Crane scooped Kathryn up and sat her on his lap, on the floor - in case she managed to roll away. "I didn't hurt you, Kathryn. I want to make the pain go away. Will you let me?"

"Y- no you. He hurt."

"What do you mean?" She could be referring to Scarecrow or Jack, and at this point, he really had no idea what she was saying.

"Mask. He hurt. S-s-s-s-s- - hurt," she stammered, unable to say his name. He supposed that made sense, since he had forced her to say it - remembering exactly what he'd had to watch made a shiver run through him.

"Yes. He hurt you. Scarecrow hurt you."

"No! No Scarecrow! No like Scarecrow!" Suddenly she was fighting as wildly as she had before, and he had to hurriedly calm her down before she wounded herself or him in her struggles.

"Shush, shush. It's okay. He's gone now. You don't need to worry. He went away." That was the simplest description for what Crane had done; Scarecrow was pinned in the very back corner of his mind, more tightly than ever before.

"Make hurt go."

"What do you want, Kathryn? I don't understand."

"Make no more hurt." If this was a true psychotic break, not just a reaction to stress, then their already difficult lives were about to be made more challenging than ever. He had no idea whether or not he'd be able to pull her out of this regressed state, but he had to try.

"No, don't want go out. Want go home."

"I didn't say anything. Who are you talking to?"

"Don't like - no, no, stop! Don't like!" So she really was hallucinating - he wasn't sure which senses other than sound were affected. Sedating her would probably be the most humane option at this point. The girl was clearly suffering.

Once he pulled out the syringe, a miraculous feat in and of itself as the thing had been in his drawer and he'd gotten it without moving his legs, and began unwrapping it, though, she expressed obvious distress. "No needle. No like."

"This will make it stop hurting, okay? This will make the hurts go away," he explained as his hand moved up to stroke her forehead.

"Okay. Hurt go way." He injected her with the sedative, and she slumped after several minutes. While she wasn't fully asleep, she was far enough below the normal level of consciousness that she was unable to move, so Crane was forced to carry her down the elevator and out into the car. As they went past the hallway where Jack's room was, she raised her arm haphazardly, as if to grab onto something - he wasn't having that, and she was shuffled away quickly. After that she only hung limply in his now-weary arms.

"What is going on, Dr. Crane?" Lea asked, impatient and incredibly curious.

"I will explain later, Ms. Jameson," he replied hurriedly, backing out the door and buckling Kathryn into the passenger seat.

While they drove, she made incomprehensible mumbling noises, rolling back and forth slowly in her seat. "Are you alright, sweetheart?" When did he ever call her sweetheart? Yes, he did call her dear with increasing frequency, but never sweetheart.

He hadn't really expected a comprehensible response, so he didn't worry when she continued babbling. "We'll be home in a minute and you can go to sleep, okay? You can sleep on my bed if you want." No answer, or no answer he could understand, anyways, so he just assumed that she would want to. It would be more comfortable for her, and he doubted that she would want to be alone if she woke up in the middle of the night.

Once she was tucked under the blankets on his bed, he kissed Kathryn's forehead and stroked her hair. "Happy birthday, dear."

**A/N: HELLA. LONG. CHAPTER. And yay for bittersweet endings! One of my favorite ways to end a chapter. Finally I'm done with her birthday and I can go on to a brand new day! This one has gone on for around five chapters, which is a lot for me. Please, review. Pretty please?**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Yo, dawg, I heard yo and yo dawg like yo-yos, so I put yo dawg in a yo-yo so yo can yo-yo yo dawg while yo dawg yo-yos and is yo-yoed in a yo-yo. Haha, I don't know where that originated, but I have loved it for a few months. RANDOM, I know. But I thrive on randomtude! That last chapter took a surprisingly short amount of time to write, considering the fact that it's six pages long in 10-point TNR. I enjoyed doing the research for this chapter. I'm a research person, which probably shows in this story more than any others I have ever written, ever. I don't know how much longer this whole shebang is going to keep on trucking, but I can assure you that it will be awhile. I tried considering whether I could add the climactic element that would lead to short-ish falling action, but it just wouldn't work right now. So don't worry, I'll be here if you'll be here.**

The next morning, she didn't wake up until he had sat her up fully and shook her shoulders. "Come on, Kathryn, you need to get up and eat." She slumped in his grasp, weakly pulling at the blanket and mumbling.

"Let's go into the kitchen and get some food," Crane murmured smoothly in her ear. Apparently, she was still under the effects of the sedative, for she wavered and stumbled as they walked into the kitchen. He settled her down at one of the stools, fearing her unsteady balance. "What did you want for breakfast?"

"Not hungry." There had been no miracle recovery through the night, but then again, he hadn't been expecting one. Still, she needed to eat. They had only eaten a small dinner last night, and then there had been the commotion with Scarecrow after a day that had already been taxing enough as is.

"You need to eat breakfast. I'll make anything you want," he said, in the enticing sort of singsong voice parents on television always used.

"No want." Was she regressing fully into childhood now, instead of hovering over the boundary as she had, or was she suffering from brief reactive psychosis? He knew that could be set off by any number of stressful events, and there had been plenty yesterday, so that answer made the most sense, considering her garbled speech and hallucinations. But he couldn't be expected to wait it out, really. Two more weeks of being unable to get her to say more than four or five words, at most, to reply to one question? No, he would have to medicate her somehow. Haloperidol would probably be a good choice, as it was recommended for treating psychoses and didn't have too many terrible side effects - at least, it usually didn't have too many side effects, but he would keep an even closer eye on her.

Now the only question was how to get her the medication. He needed to get haloperidol - there was still seroxat left in the drawer that would last for a little while - which would probably take ten minutes, plus over an hour's commute round trip. There was no way that he would leave her alone for that long, but it would be a poor idea indeed to take her to the pharmacy with him in her current state.

Only one option remained, and while it was really a shitty choice, it was better than nothing. "Kathryn … do you want to go visit Jack today?" Of course that would manage to excite her. Of course. "You have to eat breakfast first, though. What do you want?"

"No, it Tuesday."

"Yes, I know it's Tuesday, dear. What do you want for breakfast?"

"No hungry."

"You already told me that, but you need to eat breakfast before we leave, alright? Now what do you want?" he asked, exasperated already.

After a pause, she dropped her head to the counter and whined, "No want breakfast."

"I know that, dear. I'm not letting you leave this house until you eat."

"Stomach hurt." Well, he wasn't going to get a choice out of her, that was for sure, so he just decided to fix a bowl of cereal and see if she would eat it.

No matter what she said to the contrary, Kathryn was obviously hungry, as she devoured the cereal and looked up at him with pitiful eyes. "Do you want something else?"

"More." This was just ridiculous, but he had to deal with the consequences of his weakness somehow. Maybe his penance would be interpreting the garbled thoughts of a psychotic girl for the next few weeks. And he had earned that punishment - probably more than that, really, but he wasn't one to complain about a light sentence. Still, he did feel an awful lot like punching something (preferably the Scarecrow), setting down the refilled bowl of cereal in front of her.

"Do you need anything before we go? You can keep your pajamas on."

That calmed her down, made her rub her face against the flannel sleeve of her pajama set. It was already chilly in Gotham, even though it was only the end of September. "Okay, then, you're sure you're ready?" She nodded slowly.

"Jack. Go see Jack." He had a distinct feeling that he was going to regret this decision. Too late now, though; he couldn't well take back the one incentive she had to get out of the house. Throwing a tantrum was not something he'd put past her right now.

"Let's go. I'm going to leave you with Jack while I go to get your new medicine, and then I'll come back to get you when I'm done." Over and over, his mind shouted back at him, _Bad idea! Bad idea!_

At Arkham, she shuffled up to the front door and down the hall, but she ran ahead when she recognized where she was. He had to rush to keep up, afraid she would get lost before they reached Jack's room. "Jack!" she exclaimed.

"Hey there, sweet thing. Back again so soon?" the man replied brightly.

"Just - make sure she doesn't hurt herself, alright? I'll be back in a few minutes," Crane sighed, walking back to the pharmacy.

The process was slower than usual, since it was not Murphy in the pharmacy but one of the new-hires, one who clearly had no idea where anything was. No matter how many times Crane snapped at her, she still continued at her clueless, dragging pace. It was almost agonizing to have to wait fifteen minutes to get one prescription filled, and he made a mental note to fire the girl the next time he came into the office.

"Hey, Dr. Crane, what happened to your girl here? She won't say more than two words to me. Did you hurt her?" Jack accused when Crane was standing in front of his room. Kathryn had herself pressed against the door, much like she had been yesterday, although her wounded arm hung limply at her side.

"No, mask hurt," Kathryn mumbled into the glass.

"'Mask'? Don't tell me you tried to scare her - she has a panic thing, you know!" Jack exclaimed, as if he knew Kathryn better than Crane himself did. His answer was a bit too close to the truth for comfort, though, and he put his arm over Kathryn's shoulders protectively.

"No want go! Want stay Jack!" A few weak kicks landed on his side, but they had little effect.

"She wants to stay here. I'm off my nut and even I can tell that. You ought to give her what she wants."

"Come on, Kathryn, time to go home," Crane declared, pulling Kathryn away despite her protests and attacks on his hands. Before they went out into the lobby, he grasped her wrists and pressed her against the nearest wall.

"It is not safe for you to be here. I need you to be safe. You're in a very fragile state right now, and interacting with people like Jack is exactly the wrong thing for you right now. Do you understand?" he murmured with barely restrained anger. Although he tried to keep his voice soft, she was visibly frightened and upset.

"Want Jack. Like Jack." For a moment, she paused. "Who that?" Crane looked over both shoulders, but there was no one around them.

"There's no one else here, Kathryn. It's just me."

"No, he say. Big hat." It would be best just to get her home and give her the haloperidol, rather than begin arguing with her while she was hallucinating.

"No one else is here. Let's go home, alright?" he sighed. When he pulled her forward, she stumbled and nearly fell on her face, but he held her up by her wrists. "Can you walk?"

"Earthquake. Shaky," she muttered, leaning against him to regain her balance. "No."

"No what? No, you can't walk?" How much longer was this going to last? A day, a week before the medication started to take effect? It was probably fortunate that there weren't any sedatives at the house, or he might be tempted to keep her unconscious during the day. But that would be both unethical and unfitting a parent.

"No walk. Earthquake." He scooped her up and struggled out the front door, ignoring the loud complaints of a very angry receptionist who clearly wanted to know what had happened over the past two days. He'd explain the next time he came into work - which might be a week or two from now. A phone call would definitely be due, but he'd wait until Kathryn fell asleep.

"Lots people."

"Yes, there are lots of people here. It's downtown Gotham, there are always lots of people."

"People not nice, no like me. Want hurt," she gasped, as if suddenly realizing this fact. So she was suffering delusions now. Wonderful.

"No one wants to hurt you. They don't even know you. Now sit down so I can buckle your seat belt."

"Make them no hurt. Please." She did sit down and allow the buckle to be fastened at her hip, freeing Crane to drive away.

"See, no one is hurting you, Kathryn. We're going to go home and then you can take a nap. Do you want to take a nap?" he questioned wearily as they pulled out into the street, which was only barely congested. Quite remarkable, since it was nine o'clock on a weekday morning, but he supposed that not many people drove by Arkham anyways.

There was a loud click from beside him. "Why are you unbuckling your seat belt?" he exclaimed, pulling into the nearest parking space so he could stop her from opening the door and falling into the street.

"Sorry, no mean! Sorry!" Her wails rang through his ears, making him wince, but stroking her head for a few moments at least calmed her enough to make her sit still.

"What are you apologizing for? You haven't done anything."

There was a stream of garbled words which, no matter how closely he listened, did not sound to be anything in the English language. "I don't know what you're saying, dear. Slow down and tell me what's wrong."

"You want hurt, you hurt, you pinch scratch pinch fingers hurt, sorry, no hurt, please no hurt, please, no like pinch!" Her hand wrapped around the gash on her wrist, which he'd bandaged again after they got home last night.

"I told you already, that wasn't me. I didn't hurt you. I'm not - I'm not the person who did those things to you. Now please relax until we get home and I can give you your medicine." He had a feeling that, based on her reaction yesterday, it would be a bad idea to say the word Scarecrow aloud.

"Med'cine help? No breathe bad med'cine?" she whispered. After a long period of consideration, he figured out that she was talking about the toxin.

"No, this will make you feel better. It will … make everyone stop hurting you," Crane explained. Yes, that would probably be the best explanation for her to wrap her head around.

"Okay. Go home, med'cine, sleep."

And they did just that. He gave her the seroxat and haloperidol with a full glass of water, and she fell asleep half-hanging off of his bed. Instead of moving her to the little mattress, he sprawled out and listed all the symptoms of every mental disorder he could think of until he fell asleep.

**A/N: I'm not a fan of this chapter, but eh. Let me know what you think could be improved about it! Or just think it to yourself and hope that we think of the same thing at the same time so that the next chapter will be better. Your pick.**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: AT THE BEACH (this is my excuse for a late update, by the way). Man, Emerald Isle is so beautiful. I freakin' adore this place. They don't call it the Crystal Coast for nothing - the sand is fine and smooth and white. I have eighty billion books to read so I've to pick and choose which ones I want to read. But you don't care about that! XD Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter - I know it's jumpy, which is why I'm taking the coward's way out. Time skips abound. Haha, I made a Batman joke later in this chapter. Isn't irony just awesome? I love it. **

**I have a favor to ask of you, the readers. I'm really having some trouble deciding how I want the plot to play out. Is there one among you who would be willing to help me plan out the climax of this? It's really just helping me choose between two similar options, but they both work really well. However, it would obviously ruin the story for anyone who agrees to do it. I only need one person. Drop a review or a message if you're interested.**

Every few days, Crane noticed a marked improvement in Kathryn's behavior. She was increasingly cooperative, and her speech even grew clearer after two or three weeks. There was still a communication barrier, but it seemed to get better every day. Some mornings, she would wake up and have a perfectly lucid conversation before a minor hallucination or delusion would startle her back to her somewhat addled state.

"Good morning, dear," he called loudly, walking in with Cliath draped over his shoulder. "I thought that you might want to play with the pup for awhile this morning before we head in to Arkham." It had gotten so that he was able to take her into work as he had been, leaving her in the office all day with a pad of paper, a pencil, and a stereo to entertain herself - even though she'd become more in control of herself, seeming less depressed on the rare occasions she was able to express her emotions properly, he kept all sharp implements in his desk, and the door was locked.

Most of the time, she drew, although on some occasions she wrote simple poems or stories. When he flipped through the pads she'd filled, he was astonished to find several beautiful portraits and profiles among the freeform scribbles and doodles. She didn't like to talk about them, as he found out when she tore holes in all the pictures he tried to show her.

"Cliath! Come here, puppy." Once placed on the mattress, she clambered on top of Kathryn, making her breath come out in a wheeze. "Heavy puppy!"

"Yes, she sure has gotten big. We need to let her out in the back yard. You go do that while I make breakfast. Do you want cereal?" he asked, not sure if he should expect an answer.

"Stomach funny." No, he shouldn't have expected anything.

"Toast, then? I know your stomach hurts but you need to eat," he urged. Many mornings, things went exactly like this, as her medications caused nausea that ranged from mild to severe, depending on the day. At some points she spent as much as half an hour leaning over the toilet for fear of vomiting on the carpet.

"Head funny too. Have headache." She paused, with an intense look of concentration on her face. "I … don't want … breakfast." Obviously it took an immense amount of effort for her to piece together a sentence like that. Immediately, he wrapped an arm around her and grinned.

"Good job! I'm proud of you." In response, she giggled. "But you still have to eat. You still haven't gained back all the weight that you lost back at Arkham," he reminded her. That was certainly true - when she was admitted, the slim girl had weighed 130 pounds, but by the time she came home, Kathryn weighed only 104 pounds, which wasn't nearly enough for someone nearly 5'9". At this point she weighed about 120, still light for her frame, and he was constantly prodding her to eat more.

"Okay. I … want eggs. Sunny," she decided, apparently thinking that he was supposed to understand that in an instant.

"Oh, you want sunny side up eggs. Okay, take Cliath out and I'll make them." It took a moment to regain her balance once she was standing, but Kathryn took Cliath downstairs, and he heard the noise of a sliding glass door opening and closing.

Making eggs was both quick and easy - he even made himself a plate, and some bacon for both of them. For once he didn't burn anything, a miracle in and of itself. "Cliath go … to bathroom," she called from just inside the living room.

"Breakfast's ready. Just let me put some food down for the pup and I'll get your plate." Cliath dug into her kibble with gusto, a sight not nearly as surprising as Kathryn sitting on the floor with a plate in her lap, gnawing eagerly on a crisp slice of bacon. "I thought you said your stomach hurt."

"Hungry," she mumbled through a mouthful of food.

"Well, come on, at least sit at the counter instead of on the ground. You'll spill your breakfast."

"I'm comfy. Like sitting on the floor." Of course she would. At least she was eating, though, and that was more than he could have said several days in the past few weeks. In fact, the plate was nearly empty by now, with only a few crumbs and trails of egg yolk.

"Are you still hungry, or do you want to leave now?" Crane inquired with a smile.

Standing, she shook her head, dropping her plate in the sink. "Ready to go." So he led her out into the car and settled her in the front seat. "How long … are … going?" That took a bit of thought - first to figure out what she meant, and second to decide exactly how long he needed to stay at Arkham to get done what he needed to. Certainly his patients were in need of him, for the other psychiatrists were idiotic ninety percent of the time and cruel the other ten percent. Three hour-long appointments made three hours, plus he needed to at least check on the basement.

"At least four hours, probably four and a half. I'll get you some more paper before I go, if you want to draw," he proposed. An eager nod.

"Colored pencils?" She was either more serious about drawing than he knew, or just bored of shades of grey. Personally, he guessed that it was probably a combination of the two.

"No, I don't have any, but I'll find some for you in art therapy when we get there," he promised, debating internally over whether or not they'd be willing to hand off their equipment. If he said it was for a patient, they'd probably be more flexible, and it wasn't entirely a lie to say that Kathryn was his patient - it was just mostly untrue. But then again, when had Crane ever been uncomfortable with falsehoods?

A light quiet filled the car, since Kathryn was more asleep than awake and he knew it was easier for both of them if she slept. There was less hassle, on his side; sleep was an escape for her. However, he had to wake her up when they arrive. "Dear, you have to get up. Only for long enough to walk to my office, alright?"

At first she just grunted and turned away. "I told you, you need to wake up," he said sternly.

"Unh." His fingers grasped her shoulder, shaking hard enough to wake a tranquilized lion. "G'way."

"Get up, Kathryn. You can sleep when we're inside, but you have three seconds to wake up and get out of this car," Crane snapped. There was no response for a second, until she sat up, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Good. Now take off your seatbelt and open the door … good. Wait just a minute." He stood up himself and walked around the car. The hold he took on her arm was a bit too tight, but it was probably fortuitous, as her balance was faltering at best. More than once as they crossed the street, he had to yank her back before she fell into the path of an impatient driver - the drivers in Gotham were imbeciles, all of them.

"Good morning, Dr. Crane. Hello, Kathryn. How are you today?" Lea called brightly from behind her desk. The receptionist was, at this point, quite used to seeing Kathryn stumble into the lobby in a slightly-less-than-lucid state.

"Tired. Can sleep?" Her head tipped up towards Crane from where it had been hanging loosely against her chest.

"No, not yet. Good morning, Miss Jameson. Anything for me?" he asked.

"The mail hasn't come yet, but I'll send up anything for you. Have a good day. If there's anything you need, just call down." Yes, he knew that. Of course he would. She'd only been telling him the same thing for the past ten months. And he very rarely needed anything. Crane knew the exact reason for her incessant helpfulness; he saw the overly cheery, slightly vacant look in her eyes when he came in the door.

Love.

Disgusting.

It was quite a relief to enter the elevator and allow Kathryn to slump onto the tile, away from the wonderfully perky Lea Jameson. Something about that woman just made him feel ill - was it her unbridled curiosity, her unrestrained nosiness, or her unlimited affection for both Dr. Crane and his young ward? A combination of all three, he decided, as the doors opened. Kathryn rolled over and stood up on legs shakier than a newborn horse's.

Once in his office, she sprawled out on the floor, sleeping almost instantly. Odd. It wasn't like her to be this tired, not any more. In fact, the girl had been staying up much later recently and waking up earlier, with few naps in between. Maybe she'd had a nightmare last night and was unable to get back to sleep, although she usually woke him when that happened. There was too much for him to worry about to think about her sleeping habits, though, so he would let it slide.

"I'll be back soon," he promised softly before tiptoeing out of the office and locking the door behind him. Even though he hated to leave her alone like that, it was what needed to be done. Other people were in need of his help too.

All three appointments went by in a blur; unfortunately, though, he had scheduled them so as to leave no time in between to visit Kathryn. After checking the basement quickly - no problems there - he went back up the elevator and into the office.

She was sitting on the floor, singing loudly and sketching with a loose hand on the pad of art paper he'd gotten her. The song was _Once Upon A December _again, and as he stood watching and listening intently, she shifted the melody from octave to octave without a second thought. No lyrics were required, for the meaning behind the keening song was clear even though she didn't enunciate a syllable.

"That sounds beautiful, Kathryn. Where did you learn to sing like that?" he called from just inside the door. Instantly, she stopped, her head snapping up with a panicked look in her eye. When she realized who it was, she grew much calmer.

"School." So she had been in a choir; well, he should have guessed that, based on what little he'd heard her sing.

"Can I see what you drew, sweetheart?" he inquired as he stepped forward carefully. Slowly, she nodded, although there was a wary look in her eye.

There was a shaded gradient on the paper that went from sky blue to forest green, from corner to corner, taking up the whole paper. Looking around, he spotted several other pages colored a similar way, amidst crumpled pages - presumably failed attempts. "Do you like coloring like this?"

"It's easy -" he marveled at her first use of a proper contraction in weeks - "and pretty. You like?" she questioned, hesitant.

"Yes, I do. We can put them up in your room," he assured her.

At home, they did put up the shadings, to Kathryn's delight, and then she ate lunch and napped. Crane sat admiring the coloring she'd done. Coloring was too childish a word for it, really; there were drawings. There were plenty of errors in color shifts and plenty of heavy patches, but they were good, all told.

An interesting morning, to say the least.

**A/N: AAAAAARRRRRGH. I have total writer's block/jam/failure/shit for this story, but I'm doing fine with my first fanfic, which hasn't been posted because I'm trying to do a rewrite of it. I might put up the 'raw' version, though, just for yuks.**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: I had this big speech planned out here, all about how THE CLIMAX IS NIGH OHMYWORD, and that I was going to miss this story so much even if nobody else likes it (which probably isn't true but whatever). Then I had a realization of a plot twist that I had been wanting to explore since the very beginning. I thought of skipping over it, and the I decided that it would just be too much fun to skip! Enjoy.**

The day after hanging up her drawings, Crane began tapering off Kathryn's haloperidol, thinking that her psychosis had abated enough that she no longer needed the medication. It took several weeks, but she suffered no ill effects, and was as stable as she'd been before when they had finished.

"G'morning, daddy. What're we doing today?" Kathryn asked sleepily from her mattress on the floor. Repeated nightmares had chased her back into his bedroom so many times that she gave up trying to sleep alone.

It was a Saturday, so he didn't have to work, and there were no errands to run. The only thing to do was take care of Cliath, who was mostly grown up but still moderately small. "Let me get your medication and then we'll decide," he declared, rolling over and unlocking the drawer he still stored her pills in.

"These don't look like my pills. This one is supposed to be blue and it's bigger, usually," she said, flipping the pill over and over across her palm. Why did she have to be so observant at the worst times? He had been hoping that she wouldn't notice the change in dosage, but Crane had forgotten that the pill was a different color.

"I'm starting to wean you off of the paroxetine. I don't think you really need it anymore, and there are better ways to deal with your problems." That was true. Even though medication was an easy solution, he had always known that he couldn't keep medicating her forever. It wasn't fixing anything, only delaying the fix until it was convenient.

He hadn't expected her to be so upset, though. "B-but - it stops the - it lets me breathe, it lets me sleep. It makes my hands stop shaking. It stops the worrying. I don't have to chew on my lips anymore."

"You used to chew on your lips?" he interrupted. That was one thing he'd never noticed about her in all the months he'd known her, and he was ashamed to have missed it.

"Yes. It distracted me when I was worrying so much that my head hurt - even when they bled, it was better that I wasn't worried. And you'll make me go back to it. You're supposed to stop all the bad things. You told me that you would make it go away, and I believed you. I didn't like the pills at first, but they make everything better. Why did I listen to you? You're a liar! I want my old pills back! You changed them before and they made me so sad that I had to hurt myself, and you know that. I don't want these! I want the old ones!" When she had finished screaming, she threw the pills with such force that they smacked against the far wall. There was a soft pitter, and the little pills were lost in the carpet.

There wasn't a single time that he could remember when she had thrown such a tantrum. "Kathryn, I can help you without the medication, so that you don't have any of those problems. And if it doesn't work, I'll give you the full dose again. Just try it. Please?" Life was so unbelievably difficult sometimes, when living with a moody and unpredictable fifteen year old.

"You said that before and it didn't work!" Now she picked up a pillow and slammed it into the wall as well.

"And I started giving you your old medication again, didn't I? Come on, just for a little while, sweetheart -" He had been trying to calm her down, but obviously she either misinterpreted it or didn't want to hear it.

"Don't call me that unless you're giving me the old pills back!" When she had run out of pillows to throw, she stomped over to his bureau and started tossing pictures into any available hard surface.

"Stop breaking my pictures just because you're upset at me," Crane snapped. To attempt to control her, he grasped her shoulders loosely - just enough to stop her from running off. For a few moments, she writhed, but he was both surprised and angered when a fist connected with his stomach. He instantly released her, and she scrambled over to the open drawer he stored everything harmful in. The pain he felt was forgotten when Kathryn pulled out a knife and held it menacingly in front of her.

He was speechless, but it seemed that he didn't need to say anything. She looked down slowly and seemed to be horrified by what she found in her hands. The blade clattered back into the drawer before the girl sprinted from his bedroom. "Come back here right now, Kathryn!" If she heard him, she made no indication of it, continuing on until she reached her bedroom.

Loud sobs greeted him as he opened the closet door and found her wrapped up in an old comforter he'd been storing there. She weakly pushed away from the entrance, though all the fight had left her eyes. "I w-w-would h-have - I was g-going t-t-t-to - I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It had been months since he'd heard her apologize so fervently, or so many times in a row. Those two words were repeated over and over again, while Crane just stood and watched.

"Are you going to try and hurt me again?" he inquired curtly when she seemed to have cried herself out. In response, she shook her head quickly.

"Alright. Do you mind if I sit down with you?" Again, she shook her head, and he sat down several feet away. She shuffled back as far as she could manage in the relatively small space.

"Can you tell me why you tried to do that?" Before he had even finished the sentence, Kathryn had dived beneath the blanket and started to whimper. "It's okay. I'm not mad." No answer; she just kept whimpering. Finally, he sighed, crawling over to her in the most dignified way possible. It seemed that she didn't want him to pull the comforter away, so Crane scooped up the whole bundle and laid her in his lap.

Her head rubbed against his leg several times. "Y-you wanted to m-m-make the h-hurting come b-b-back. I w-was m-mad at you. Do you f-f-forgive m-me?" she whispered.

"You pulled a knife on me." It wasn't an accusation, but a simple statement of fact.

"I - I'm s-sorry." That was all she said; after she apologized, Kathryn fell silent.

"You were going to kill me."

"N-n-no! N-no, I w-w-w-wouldn't! I w-w-wouldn't!" she exclaimed, pounding her face into his kneecap as if punishing herself.

"What were you going to do with a knife, then?" he asked gently.

"I d-don't - I - I d-don't kn-kn-know. I w-wouldn't h-hurt you." It sounded like she was talking more to herself than to him at that point.

"I can't be sure of that anymore, now, can I? What am I supposed to do with you? You're a danger to yourself, and more than that, you're a danger to me as well. And all because you won't let me take you off your medication. I can't trust you. Do you want to get yourself sent back to Arkham?" he finished and pushed her face away from his leg.

"D-don't s-send me b-b-back, p-please. I'll take the m-m- p-pills. I p-p-promise. I n-never meant to d-d-do - I was j-just - please d-don't. P-p-please." She looked up at him, her blue grey eyes bloodshot and wet, cheeks glistening with tears. "I'm s-scared."

She was scared? "What are you scared of, sweetheart?" he murmured, and his fingers were all of a sudden wiping the water from her cheeks. It just seemed like the right thing to do, no matter how violently angry he felt at her for threatening him with a butcher's knife.

It took her several seconds to compose herself enough to answer, but she finally breathed deeply, pushed her face against his fingertips, and replied, "Me."

"You're scared of yourself? Why?"

"You'll g-get h-h-hurt."

That was pretty much what he'd expected, for once. "Look, I won't let you do anything bad," he sighed. "Just hush. I won't take you back to Arkham, not yet. Take deep breaths. Dear, there's no need to cry. Come on, don't cry. I forgive you." Sort of, anyways.

"Y-you're not g-going to … g-g-go d-different?" she confirmed warily.

"I don't know what you mean." Go different? What could that possibly be describing?

"You - y-you call me - c-call me K-k-kitty, and - p-please don't - y-you look w-weird, your f- uh, your eyes - th-they go all h-h-hard - no, n-no, S-scarecrow, n-no!" she screamed. When she tumbled from his lap, her gaze was closer to beast than human.

"No, Kathryn, the Scarecrow is gone. He's not coming back, so you don't need to worry," he reassured her.

_When did she learn to tell the difference, Jonny?_

The voice was quiet and muted, as if from far away, but from what he could make out of the tone, Scarecrow was pouting.

**It doesn't matter, Scarecrow. Now shut up.**

After only a bit of force, Crane managed to subdue his other half fully again. Kathryn was carefully creeping up to lay beside him. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"It's alright. Do you want to sleep after I give you your medication?" To that she nodded, and he hurried off to get the pills off the floor. He took them back with a tall glass of water.

Once she had swallowed both pills, he tucked her into bed and sat beside her until she was asleep.

Normally, Crane was a well-spoken individual who never had a problem verbalizing what he thought, although it was mostly internalized. At this moment, however, all he could think was, "What just happened?"

**This chapter is shorter than the past few chapters, but I hope you all like it.**


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Glad that you guys - you guys being Vampy and Delu and Batman anyone else who reviews between now and when this chapter goes live - seemed to like the last chapter! Hope this one is also satisfactory, and a bit longer. It will be a wee bit montage-y, but that seemed appropriate for the moment. And it took me until now to realize that I have no idea why Jonathan is referred to by last name in this whole narrative. XD Sorry for the delay! Writer's block is a villainous disease.**

It took two days after her paroxetine dose was halved for the withdrawal to begin. Kathryn woke up, shivering, and rushed into the bathroom. There was a quiet retching noise, followed by sobbing. "I'm coming in, alright?" Crane called worriedly. He found her bent over the toilet with her head hanging over the bowl.

"Did you throw up?" he asked. Slowly, she sat up and shook her head. "Come here, then. What happened?"

She refused to explain for a time, but finally, she took a deep breath and whimpered, "'Lease." It sounded like a slurred version of the word 'please'.

"What do you mean, please? What do you need?" Were they going back to this again? This incomprehensibility? He had heard that confusion was a symptom of paroxetine withdrawal, but many people just had a few days of flu-like symptoms.

"You said I could have the other pills back. Please," she begged. Tears were welling up in her eyes now.

"It's only been two days. Can you wait just a little longer? A few days, maybe? It will get better, I promise." As he said this, he was thinking fervently,_ Don't start crying. Please, please, Kathryn, don't start crying. You need this._

Unfortunately, Kathryn was not a mind reader, so the tears streamed down her face slowly, like she was afraid to cry. "Just one more day. If it's this bad tomorrow, I'll give you the other pills. Okay? One more day." For once, could she not be contrary and just allow him to try to fix the wreck that was her mind?

"You promise? Tomorrow?" He thanked every deity, small and large, under this or any sun, as he helped her stand up and lay out on his bed; there was no chance he'd be going back to sleep anytime soon. It took only seconds for her to burrow under the covers, still shaking slightly.

What a wonderful morning. Hopefully, this wasn't an indication of how the rest of the day would pan out. And hopefully he wouldn't go back upstairs to find a teenage girl sleeping in his bed, wearing pajamas that he'd bought for her. And hopefully no one in the world was dying of starvation today. He couldn't help but laugh at all the false hopes that carried him into the kitchen. In his experience, when a day started out badly, it only got worse.

Since he presumed that Kathryn had gone back to sleep, he made breakfast only for himself - toast and coffee, what he'd usually eaten before she arrived. The taste was remarkably unfulfilling. But why make more now when he'd just be cooking again whenever she woke up? Speaking of which, it had been twenty minutes, and he figured it would be a good idea to go check on her.

"I can't sleep," she explained when Crane opened the door on her early morning reading session. "I don't know if I can wait until tomorrow. I d-didn't sleep well last night, either. Please give them back. You do have them, don't you? You didn't g-get rid of them, did you? Y-you did, didn't you, and n-now I don't h-have any p-pills and g-god damn it, p-please give them b-back. I-I'm dizzy as sh-shit, and it, uh, it feels like I'm going to p-puke and I'm f-fucking tired. P-please." It was very rare for her to curse, and she only did it when under duress. No matter how much it pained her, and him, it was important for Kathryn to try and get off the medication that made her sleep constantly. Who knew, it might just be good for her.

Although he was resolved in his decision, it still pained him to shake his head. "I told you, tomorrow. Try to be patient, dear. It's going to be alright," he murmured. Funny how settling her on his lap and rubbing her back was so normal now. Her head pressed against his chest angrily.

She sat there for over an hour before rolling back onto the bed. "Did you already have breakfast?" she mumbled into the covers.

"No, I didn't. Would you like me to make you something?" He wasn't surprised when she refused, what with the mood she was in. "Well, you can make what you'd like, then. I'll be down in a minute." When she stood up, it seemed for a moment that she was going to fall over, but she managed to stumble her way onto the first floor without incident.

He followed after changing into his work clothes - the same dark grey suit he always wore, with a white shirt, crimson tie, and a black sweater vest. It was a well-known fact at Arkham that Crane didn't have much of a fashion sense. Why bother wearing fancy clothes that cost far too much money, when suits did what he needed them to do?

There was egg dripping all over the counter and onto the floor, mixed together with little white bits of shell. A mild burning smell filled the kitchen, and he rushed in to pull a pan of smoking butter off the stove. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Something - s-something zapped me." Lovely. Before anything set on fire, he turned the burner off and began wiping up the countertop. "It b-buzzed all up and d-down and made me d-drop the egg. S-so-sorry," she whispered, still frozen where she stood.

"It's because of the withdrawal," he informed her. Going off of paroxetine often caused a symptom known as 'brain shocks', a sensation of electricity in the body. It seemed that she was suffering from it.

Although what he told Kathryn was true, it was not the thing to tell her. "G-give me the p-p-pills back." Again, he told her no.

The next day, she sat in bed crying for most of the morning and into the afternoon, with her hands wrapped around her head. Every time he offered food, she shook her head for a moment before whimpering and ducking beneath the blanket. The only thing she said was several varieties of 'give me the pills back'. No matter what he promised her yesterday, these symptoms would eventually go away if she didn't take the full dose - he still had her on ten milligrams daily, which he had to all but force down her throat between weak wordless protests and sobs.

She was awake all night. Her near-constant whines were enough to keep him up as well, tiredly stroking her back as if it would make her sleep. Of course, it didn't. The world was working against him recently, so why would anything he tried allow him to get more than twenty minutes of sleep at a time? He was sorely tempted to cave in and give her the pills, but then he realized that this truly would be good for her. Probably.

Crane spent three hours the next morning feeding her cereal, dry, using the same technique he had been using to give her pills: grabbing her head, prying her jaw open, then closing her mouth and urging her to chew and swallow. She was crying the entire time and pushing his hands away as hard as she could. "M-m-my s-stomach h-h-h-hurts! S-stop!" she shouted frequently, with the consequence that he wound up covered in half-chewed Cheerio's and spittle.

"Look, Kathryn, I know this is hard, but you're fifteen. Stop acting like a child," he snapped, instantly dwarfed by a wave of regret so intense that he had to wince. That was not the sort of thing one should say lto a mentally unstable individual, especially not one currently in the middle of going off their medication.

He was surprised when she ducked her head and fell silent. It was even more surprising to watch Kathryn begin nibbling on a Cheerio, taking over a minute to eat the one piece of cereal. At least she was eating it, though. "D-d-don't h-hurt me." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry I said that, Kathryn. I'm not going to hurt you. Come here, sweetheart, don't be scared." The quiet urging seemed to be enough to encourage her to stumble into his lap. Sometimes, he wondered how he managed to hold and lift her so frequently, the way he was often forced to, when he was just barely at a healthy weight himself. Not only that, but he was severely lacking in muscle, as evidenced by his spindly frame. In fact, if they weren't aware of the situation, an outside observer might assume that they were really related.

"S-s-s-s-sorry," she stammered quietly into his chest, and there was a muffled sound of chewing; Kathryn had apparently taken some of the cereal with her to placate him. With a heavy sigh, he patted her shoulder until her gasping breaths calmed slightly.

The rest of the day progressed in a similar way, with Crane trying to coerce her into eating lunch and dinner without resorting to violence. By the time nine o'clock rolled around, both of them were quite exhausted. Since it seemed like it would be more comfortable, he allowed her to lie on his bed and enjoy another sleepless night.

Three more days, they spent like this. On the second, he didn't give her any paroxetine at all, which seemed to be a mistake. His thought had been to get the whole process over with as quickly as possible, but she refused to even move from the bed on the third day, claiming that the 'shocks' were too bad.

It got to the point, eleven days after he'd first reduced her dose and five after he'd cut her off, that she was acting exactly as she had when first brought into his office. Every time he entered the room, Kathryn shrunk away or curled tightly into a ball. When going to get her for lunch, he realized that she was hiding under the bed and crying softly.

Twenty-two days it took for her to regain total lucidity from the day her dose was cut. Even then, she maintained the panicked attitude he had nearly forgotten about. Still, she did eat, albeit only in the bedroom, and only by herself. She had two panic attacks, which he attempted to deal with verbally; eventually, he did have to resort to diazepam, but at least he tried.

While sitting on the sofa, he heard a loud stutter from on the stairs. "D-d-d-d-d-daddy - h-help -" The voice was cut off by a heavy crash. Instantly Crane raced over to help her. It seemed that she had collapsed on the landing, and was now set to crying and gasping where she lay.

"It's alright. I'm here. Daddy's here. Take a deep breath. Nothing's going to hurt you. You don't need to worry. Just relax." He kept repeating those phrases for over ten minutes, until finally, she relaxed into his arms and dozed without saying a word.

_Jonny, I've been thinking - _

**How remarkable.**

_Oh, shut up. I've been thinking, and I think Kathryn knows who I am now._

**It took you this long to think about it? It's been a month. You're falling behind.**

_It's not fair, really. I don't have any advantage any more. Although…_

Scarecrow trailed off there, much to Crane's relief, and for a while he thought that his alter had gone back into the depths to think. However, after a few minutes, he piped up again. _Do you think she could fear you?_

**No, Scarecrow. Now go away. I've got enough on my plate without you to deal with.**

_But I want to find out, Jonny! I'm curious by nature - you know that. Inquisitiveness is a positive trait. It's how we learn about the world around us._

**You do know what they say, right?****Curiosity…**

_Killed the kitty-cat, I know, I know._


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: All the feedback has been positive for the past two chapters, which makes me feel warm and fuzzy. :D Thanks to everyone!**

It was always mornings that had been the most difficult for Crane's control. When stuck between sleep and consciousness, the Scarecrow often managed to eke out a few minutes before Crane gained enough awareness to become dominant. However, he hadn't had any such problems since Kathryn had come home.

He shouldn't have been surprised when he woke up fully to find himself sitting up on his bed, alone, filing his nails with an emery board. "Oh, good morning, Jonny. Your daughter went downstairs to make herself some breakfast - I told her she didn't have to make me anything, since I'm not particularly hungry. What about you? Feeing peckish?"

Jonny's reaction was exactly what he had expected - whiny. **Let me get back to my daughter.**

"Geez, Jonny, since when did you have to ask? What happened to ruling this shitty body with an iron fist? Or, in our case, a bony fist? I mean, seriously! Lift some weights, eat some protein! We are severely lacking in muscle mass," he teased with a wide puckish grin.

**It's too early for this.** There was a long pause. **What are you thinking of doing?**

"Nothing special, nothing special. But you'll just have to wait and see." After blowing on his nails, Scarecrow waggled a finger in a manner that would be considered provocative in most other contexts.

**Scarecrow, don't. Don't do this.**

"Oh, don't do what? Test out my hypothesis?" It was no challenge for him to creep quietly down the stairs, contemplating the next few minutes hungrily. What did Jonny-boy find so mystifying about her? She was a broken doll, cracked in more than a few places. Too much to repair, but hale enough to make you want to try.

How did porcelain fare against a hammer, he wondered with undue eagerness. "Kathryn, dear, come here for a moment," he called in his best impersonation of Jonny. And bless her, child, Kitty came when she was called. She traipsed toward him with a goofy little smile on her face.

"What do you need, daddy?" she asked brightly. It seemed like an eternity since Scarecrow had heard that little stutter, that stutter that turned her speech incomprehensible when she got scared. The longing was so great that his fingers twitched, but this would be more fun if he waited. Now wasn't the right time. So he maintained his less-than-perfect imitation.

"Can you come upstairs with me for a moment?" God, this was so infuriating. How did Jonny stand being so polite all the time? His self-control was wearing thin after less than a minute. For a moment, he regretted what he was about to do, because he really needed Jonny for interpersonal relations. But no, this would be just too good to pass up.

Once they had settled on his bed, Kathryn perched on the end and Scarecrow sitting cross-legged in the center, she looked up quizzically. "So what did you want? I was about to start making breakfast." It almost seemed like she was pouting.

"I have something to try. Come here, sit beside me, dear," he requested with a tight smile. Why was this so difficult? It would be difficult to drag this out for much longer; fortunately, what he was about to do didn't really require much set-up. Clean-up was another matter, but he'd let Jonny worry about that.

**No, no, no! For the love of all that is holy, Scarecrow, do not do what you are about to do. I beg you. I'm begging.**

A few struggles followed, but months in confinement had made Scarecrow stronger than ever, and able to hold control without difficulty. As Kathryn shuffled over to sit beside him, he reached down as discreetly as possible and begun dialing the combination lock still hanging from the bedside drawer.

"What are you doing? I don't have any more pills I need to take, do I? I just got off of the other ones. Please tell me there aren't any more pills," she whispered, already starting to shy away.

"No, no more pills, sweetheart. You don't need to take any more pills." He had to hold back a raucous chuckle at that, but instead of laughing, he shuffled around in the drawer until he found what he was looking for. He pulled it out and kept it hidden beside the bed, out of sight.

"What did you just pull out of the drawer? Daddy, you're scaring me-"

"Good! That's exactly what I wanted to do, kitty cat," he crowed. Before Kathryn could make her escape, he shot his hand out to grasp her by the wrist - as loosely as he could manage while still holding her. The feeling of the long scar running down her forearm was just wondrous.

"S-s-s-s-scarecrow, n-no, b-bring D-d-daddy b-back!" It was too late for him to test his original theory - that she'd be able to learn fear for Jonny himself, but he couldn't back out now. And besides, it would be great.

"Now, I just want you to know that Daddy loves you very, very much. He told me to tell you that." That wasn't all that Jonny was telling him, but he ignored most of the wailing and crying, instead choosing to reach down and grasp the handle of the knife he'd pulled from the drawer.

In an instant, he had brought the small and clean knife up to hover just above her wrist. "Now, do you have any last words before you kill yourself?" he asked pleasantly, as if asking what she wanted for lunch.

"D-d-daddy, s- d-don't - s-stop h-him, oh - oh - oh - oh -" And then she fell silent, watching the silver blade cut deep into first her left arm, then the other. Twin rivers of blood were pouring from her arms and onto the sheets; fortunately, Scarecrow had dived away before any of the blood could hit him. Before he left the room, he slipped the knife into her hand and rubbed it around a bit, just in case someone decided to investigate.

He highly doubted that the cops in this town could be bothered with investigating the 'suicide' of a girl who had already attempted it once before. It would just take a bit of lying and a really good poker face. But Scarecrow had practice with poker faces.

Instead of dialing 911 like Jonny was begging him to, Scarecrow began making a pan of scrambled eggs, enough for two - really, it was just an excuse for why he didn't call sooner. Once he had served two plates of eggs, he went upstairs and found one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

Kathryn was flopped on her back, coated in blood and pale as bone. Instantly, he rushed to the phone. "Now Jonny, I'm going to let you take over here. You know what people will think if you tell them what really happened, so be convincing, alright? And cry a little. It makes the whole thing more convincing."

At the instant he regained control, Crane dialed 911 with shaky fingers. The dispatcher answered in a voice that sounded clearly of a late night and an early morning. "What is the nature of your emergency?"

It took a minute for him to be able to respond. "My - my - my daughter - she - she slit her wrists. I think she's dying. Please help. Save her," he choked out in a whisper.

"Sir, I need your address. When did this occur?" she asked, sounding much less tired.

"8756 Ella Street. I - I don't kn-know when she did it. I was - I was downstairs, m-making breakfast. Oh God, there's so much blood - no, Kathryn, no! You can't be dead! You can't be dead! Kathryn, open your eyes! Come on, open your eyes! You can't die on me! No!" While the dispatcher attempted to calm him down, Crane clutched his daughter to his chest and allowed his tears to mix with the blood that now covered both of them.

"Sir, an ambulance is outside, you'll need to go let them in," she informed him in a soft tone. Since he was unwilling to leave her behind, Crane scooped her up and stumbled down the stairs, sobbing. It took a bit of maneuvering to open the door. All throughout, he was barely present. The only thing he could think about was her cooling skin beneath his hand, her limp and lifeless body in his arms.

"We need to take her, sir. Please let go," a paramedic urged. There was a minor scuffle before the paramedic pried Kathryn's body from his arms. She was laid out on a stretcher, but there was no urgency to the actions of the paramedics as they wheeled her down into the ambulance. He longed to scream, to howl, _What are you doing?! You're letting her die!_ Unfortunately, he wanted to shout that at himself as much as at the paramedics, so he wisely kept his mouth shut.

"You'll have to wait here for the police, but you need to come to the hospital as soon as you can to make arrangements with the funeral home." No, no, no, there was no need for that, she wasn't dead. She couldn't be dead.

"What do you mean, arrangements?" he choked out, after a few moments' pause, just to distract himself from watching her be wheeled into the ambulance, watching the doors close painfully slowly.

"Your daughter bled out - what happened, exactly?" This was not something the paramedic had to ask, if the police were coming to investigate, but he couldn't well not answer.

"I was making breakfast. When I - when I finished cooking, I went upstairs to get her, and found … her. I usually keep her medications and the kitchen knives locked up, but I must have left the drawer unlocked since she's been off medication for a little while now. God, this is all my fault." He was sobbing by then, tears streaming down his face in a very undignified manner. Odd how the lies didn't affect him in the least. Perhaps it was the massive grief that was growing exponentially; every thought of her brought three more along with it.

"Alright, here are the police now, sir," the paramedic announced, and pointed toward an incoming cop car. The sirens were off. Once a cop had come out from the driver's seat, the paramedic smiled apologetically before entering the ambulance and driving away.

"Okay, sir, I know this is a stressful time, but it's procedure to investigate deaths of any kind. What happened here?" the cop asked calmly, a hint of pity to his voice.

Crane repeated what he had told the EMT, and the cop looked around the bedroom for a few minutes before leaving, giving Crane condolences on his loss. As if that made a difference.

Once he was alone, Crane sprawled out on his bed, ignoring the blood that permeated the covers and was now soaking into his pajamas. After a few minutes, he knew he needed to go to the hospital, but he couldn't bring himself to move with any enthusiasm, stumbling slowly down the stairs. The reality of what had just happened - what he had just allowed to happen - had not yet hit him, instead lingering in the back of his dulled awareness.

He was let into a small room instantly, once again urged to hurry when the receptionist realized that he was covered in blood. Kathryn wasn't there, but a heavyset, balding man sat behind a desk. When Crane stumbled in, he sat up erect in his chair, with a look of shock on his face. "Are you Dr. Crane? I'm Timothy Fisher, the director of the Strivers Row funeral home. I was told your daughter passed today? Sorry for your loss." Timothy's voice was deep and warm, and would probably be soothing in any other circumstance.

"Just tell me what you need so I can go home," Crane sighed wearily, in a monotone. He could tell that Timothy seemed concerned at his tone, but he just couldn't care about it. About anything.

"Well, first question is, would you like her buried or cremated?" Timothy asked quietly. Crane hadn't had a chance to consider that, and he was utterly ashamed when he answered, purely from a financial standpoint.

"Cremated. No need for a service." He had never been religious, and Kathryn hadn't - he couldn't think about her. No, he couldn't, not here, not now. Those thoughts would have to wait until he was alone and not in danger of embarrassing himself.

"Alright, then. Would you like her to be buried, or will you scatter the ashes?" Another thing he hadn't thought about, but he supposed that Kathryn might enjoy being scattered to the wind. Shit, he had absolutely no idea what she wanted. He didn't know anything about her … it took a huge amount of concentration to not rush from the room.

"I'll scatter them. Is there anything else you need, or can I go home?" The man shook his head, and Crane left the room in a hurry. His chair clattered against the floorboards in his haste.

**A/N: In the interest of posting a damn chapter already, I'm cutting this in half. **


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: I am sorry that I had to do that, but it was totally called for. It really was. Now we get to see how it really affected Jonathan, the crazy fool. Sorry for the delay - we're fostering kittens that aren't even a week old, and their cuteness is like a vortex. One of them died on Monday, though, which was very depressing, and I hope the other two make it or I will be very depressed. This chapter is sort of short, please forgive me!  
**

Once home, Crane changed his clothes, into more pajamas, he tore the blankets off of his bed and tossed them carelessly on the floor. After that, he settled on the little mattress with legs crossed. In a way, he supposed that he hadn't really understood what had happened yet.

For a few moments, he considered it. Scarecrow had slit her wrists. His hands on the knife, running across her skin, slicing deep into the veins. And he had left her to - and when he came back, she was - paler than pale, covered in blood, still and silent.

His hands had killed her. He had watched as she died, as his fingers had taken her life away. A wordless screech escaped his lips, and he couldn't make it stop until he ran out of breath, only to take in a gasp of air and begin screaming again.

_I see you've finally figured it out. So, Jonny, how do you feel? Doesn't it feel good to have her out of her life? I can get rid of the mutt for you, too, if you want._

Crane howled yet again, his fingers tangling through his hair. There were no words left to say, only expressions of pure grief.

_Geez, Dr. Crane! You are giving me a headache. Why don't you quiet down and go do some laundry or something? At least shut your mouth. I mean, it's not like she was important to you or anything. Oops, I'm sorry. I forgot, because you never told her. You never told her how much you care for her, or any sappy shit like that. The only reason she knew is because _I_ told her, right before you killed her._

"Be quiet!" Crane roared, in a voice that would have set Kathryn to tears. Even Scarecrow seemed cowed by it, at least for a moment. In the following silence, Crane considered what Scarecrow had just revealed, and he realized that it was true. It was utterly and completely true. And the truth was unbearable.

He tensed up as the day's events flashed across his eyes in real time, lingering on the moments when he'd had his hands on her, her corpse cradled in his arms, blood spilling everywhere, mingling with tears, her eyes like glass as she looked up at him, the panic he'd seen in her when the knife descended, her last words to him - she begged him to stop, she begged, she said 'daddy', she wanted him back instead of Scarecrow - and there was blood, all over, so much blood, white skin covered in blood, glass eyes, silver flashing like moonlight. Blood. Glass. White. Flash. Blood. Glass. White. Flash.

"Kathryn!" he screamed. His freshly buffed fingernails dug into his scalp until he felt warmth beneath them. "Come back! I need you! You can't be gone!"

_It's okay. _I'll_ always be here for you. Even when everyone else leaves, I'm always here. Don't you forget that._ Scarecrow's voice was unbelievably soft, and Crane couldn't help but believe what he was hearing for a second. Then he realized exactly what the Scarecrow had done.

"You killed her! You killed my daughter! You son of a bitch! You killed my daughter!" Blood. Glass. White. Flash. The fresh memories tearing through his skull made him scream in agony. "She's dead and you killed her!" Blood. Glass. White. Flash.

_If you don't quiet down, the neighbors will hear you, and someone will come to investigate. You don't want to go to jail for murder, do you?_

"It was you." Crane whispered between sobs. "You killed her." Blood. Glass. White. Flash. This was getting to be unbearable. Every instant, a new image flew across his vision. It took only seconds before he was willing to gouge his own eyes out, anything to stop the torment. Blood. Glass. White. Flash.

_Did you not see your hands on the knife? Your fingers wrapped around the blade that took her life? It was you, Jonny. Tsk-tsk. I really should call the police to have you arrested. What you did was wrong! You lied to a paramedic, and worse, you lied to a cop, after killing your daughter. You ought to be ashamed of yourself._

And he was ashamed. Guilty, remorseful, sorrowful, but most of all, Crane was angry. Violently, viciously, painfully angry. "Don't you dare try to blame this on me! You killed my daughter, and I don't want to hear your shit! You killed her, not me! It was you who did this, you who pulled that knife across her wrists, and not me. Don't tell me - no, it wasn't me, it wasn't. It wasn't. That was you, it was, it was you - n-no, you did it," he finished in a sobbing whisper. There was uncertainty growing in his mind - he had seen it. He had seen his own hands on the knife, and he had watched it happen through his own eyes.

"Oh, God, no! Kathryn! Kathryn! I didn't m-mean to! Forgive me, please, Kathryn!" he wailed. Scarecrow just laughed raucously.

_It's too late to ask for an apology. You already killed her. I'm all you've got, buddy. Let's stay friends, alright? I can't exactly interact with people on my own, and no one likes you but me and that vile secretary. I bet my presence is a bit more entertaining than hers, wouldn't you agree?_

"Kathryn! Kathryn!" No, she wasn't gone. She would come around the corner any second asking him what was wrong with her face all lit up. Blood. Glass. White. Flash. He couldn't take much more of this.

"Scarecrow - help me. Make it go away," he begged, and he sounded so much like Kathryn at that moment that he screamed.

He was supposed to take care of her. He was supposed to make her better. He was supposed to love her. Quite clearly, he had failed on al counts, as she was dead and hadn't been cured. Most of all, he had obviously not loved her. What loving father killed his own daughter? Obviously, a monstrous one, and that was what he obviously was. A monster.

_No, Jonny, you're not a monster. It's not your fault, really. You never were any good at dealing with people, now were you? I mean, sure, you got along fine for a while, but there was never any real interaction. I'm sure this whole thing just got to be too much for you._

The words snaked around his mind, but he could not bring himself to listen. There was too much grief for that. Jonathan Crane, PhD, devil in the flesh, buried his head into one of her pillows, wrapping her blanket around his shaking shoulders. But they all smelled like her. Fruity shampoo, and detergent, and soap. Clean things, just the way she liked them. He did not deserve them. The bedding wound up in a pile on the floor, and he forced himself not to pick them up. She would have, though. Kathryn didn't like mess. Blood. Glass. White. Flash.

_If you wouldn't mind, please stop repeating the same things over and over again. As entertaining as it is, I'm getting bored of watching you commit murder._

"Be quiet," Crane said again, but it was no longer menacing. His voice broke halfway through, and he was stuttering. Just like Kathryn. Blood. Glass. White. Flash.

_What did I just tell you? Stop having flashbacks!_

"Make it stop, please. Make the bad things go away. Please, Scarecrow, make it better." Blood. Glass. White. Flash.

_If only to stop your whining. But you owe me one, Jonny-boy. Don't think I'll forget._ Scarecrow took over then, and Crane had no energy left to fight him. He was going to hurt her, he was going to scare her. Blood. Glass. White. Flash. Using their bloody hands, Scarecrow gathered up all the dirty laundry and carried it downstairs. He started a load, using very hot water and extra detergent. But hot water would just set the stains, on his white comforter. Blood. Glass. White. Flash.

_You are impossible to distract, did you know that? I always thought you did chores to calm yourself down, some pansy feminine thing or something. What to do, what to do._ Scarecrow disappeared for a moment, and Crane cringed. Now that he was alone, he seemed to be surrounded by images of Kathryn - hiding under the couch, hovering over him worriedly, eating breakfast on the kitchen floor. They all said the same thing, and at the same time, in a pitiful voice.

"Save me, daddy. Save me." Over and over again, growing in pitch until they were shouting in a raucous chorus. He curled into a ball on the floor and cupped his ears in his hands. As if that would stop him from hearing noises that he knew only existed in his own mind. He knew that, and yet the hallucinations didn't go away. He'd go mad, he would, if he hadn't already, if this didn't stop. But he couldn't take any pills, because she didn't like pills, no she didn't.

_Alright, Jonny, listen to me. Kathryn isn't here any more. What happened to her already happened once, and it's not happening again. Now ignore them._

"Can't - Kathryn, come back. Please come back," he whispered, until his voice gave out and he simply cried.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Another of the kittens died today - it's really depressing that both of the kittens have died on my lap or in my hands. So this hasn't been a great week for me, but at least we've got one super-energetic, extremely healthy kitten who has made it through her first week of life with no problems! Her eyes should open soon. Glad you folks liked the last chapter, even though I can understand why you hate the Scarecrow!**

_Look, Jonny, Kathryn is already dead. I want you to get your shit together, right now, or I'll have to take more dramatic action. Like, you know, boxing you up like you did to me. You certainly have earned some punishment, haven't you?_

Crane found himself being pulled away from reality, his hold on his body dissipating. Instead of the normal detached observation he was usually capable of, there was only darkness. Crushing darkness, that reflected his every thought back on him a hundred-fold. The tiny space he felt trapped in was filled with his memories of her, both from that morning and months gone by.

**Scarecrow, let me out! Let me out! I can't take it! Please - oh God, please, Scarecrow, let me out, let me out - no, no, no!** After several unbearable seconds, Crane managed to condense the flood of images into one area, without any reflection. What he saw seemed to glow with the force of emotion concentrated into it.

Kathryn sat before him, radiating white light into the darkness. She was beaming up at him, and her legs were crossed. "Hey, daddy, how are you? Where's Cliath? I was looking for her earlier, but I couldn't find her. Is she under the bed again?" she chirped.

"But - you - you died this morning, Kathryn! What the hell are you doing here?" he exclaimed in response. That was not the best response, because she seemed upset by his answer.

"What do you mean? Don't you want me here? I thought you loved me, daddy!" He could hear the tears brimming up in her voice, the crystalline liquid beginning to run down her cheeks. As a drop fell into her lap, he followed it down, until it impacted with a silvery object.

A knife, which Kathryn was now spinning slowly in one hand. "No, Kathryn, I do want you here, but I watched - God, I was so scared! I thought you - I thought I - never mind. Just come here, sweetheart." Instead of standing up and dancing over to his side like she normally would have, she tilted her head, bit her lower lip.

"But you don't want me. You don't love me." Slash. Slash. Slash. All of a sudden, she was covered in blood that continued to gush from hundreds of cuts all over her body. "I thought you loved me." She started to fade away.

"No, don't go! I need you! I love you, Kathryn! Come back! Don't - don't go!" He dove forward and grasped her hands, but it was too late. "Don't go…" She was gone.

He curled into the fetal position and sobbed, rocking from side to side. Alone in the darkness that swallowed him up, until there was nothing left but grief. It continued to smother him, devouring even the grief and leaving…

Jonathan Crane. Just him. No memories. No emotions. No daughters. Just Jonathan Crane and the darkness.

Eventually, his crying ceased, allowing him to take a deep and cleansing breath. Even though his face was wet with tears, he couldn't remember what had made him start to cry in the first place. After all, there was nothing else to him but himself.

_Jonny, don't let yourself get lost. Don't forget about me. You don't want to forget about your Scarecrow, do you?_ The voice was strangely familiar, but he had to dig deep to figure out who was speaking to him and why he was there.

"Scarecrow? What am I doing here?" he called out into the dark, hoping that there would be a response. Now that he knew that he was not meant to be alone, he feared the silence.

_You really don't remember? Well, at least you're not whining anymore. I won't remind you until you figure it out on your own. But let's turn you loose and see what happens._ Tendrils of darkness began to recede and draw back, which left Crane in an unbearably bright room.

"It's too bright out here. Let me back into the dark." It was where he belonged, that much he still remembered. He had been born of the shadow, for some unknown reason, but the connection between blackness and evil remained ingrained in his mind. "Am I evil, Scarecrow?"

_You should think about that. Remember, Jonny. You have to remember what happened. How did you forget so quickly?_ Scarecrow sounded exasperated.

"Remember what? There is you, and there is me. Light and dark. And too much light. What did I do to deserve this?" he moaned, cradling his head in his hands. If he closed his eyes, he could remember the darkness, and it was comforting. He belonged.

If he thought, images came to him. A girl - it seemed that she was blonde. A young girl, surely, but wearing - flannel pants - he had a feeling they were his. Sleeping on a mattress, on the floor, next to a bed - his bed? And the same girl on his bed, covered in redness - fluid - blood - paler than snow.

A dead girl on his bed. Was this what he had done? "What was her name?" Crane had to ask, for he could not bring himself to remember. Each time he tried, a strange force pushed him back.

_I don't think I should tell you that. I don't want to hurt you._

"God damn it, Scarecrow, what was her name? Why can't I remember? What was she to me? Tell me who she was. Tell me who I am." The emptiness in his skull, where he knew there should be memories, drove him mad.

_I - I can't hurt you like that, Jonathan. You don't need to know about her. Please don't make me._ Even though he could not see Scarecrow's face, it was clear that he was crying, and the wrongness of that was a thing he definitely did know.

"Who did I kill, Scarecrow? Why? There's blood on the floor, on my clothes, on my hands. I can see it - everywhere - please, what did I do?" Now he could see something else, in his mind's eye. Long fingers clasped around a knife. His fingers around a knife, and under the knife was skin and veins and blood and a familiar scent of soap and shampoo and fresh laundry, tidying things like washing dishes or cleaning up after the puppy, washing out the bite wound -

"Kathryn? Was that her name? It was, wasn't it? Why did I hurt her?" He had hurt her, that much he knew. And clearly she was dead, he had seen that for himself.

_No, no, Jonathan, you didn't - fuck, Jonny, you didn't do anything, alright? It wasn't your fault. I told you that you didn't need to know. Why did I let you out? You were happier in the dark. Fuck._

"Whose fault was it, then? Who killed my daughter - was she my daughter? I think she was. Why can't I remember? Why can't I remember?!" he shouted. There should be no reason that he would forget his own child.

_Don't try. Don't make yourself think of her, please. For me. I don't want to watch you tear yourself apart, Jonathan. I need you. You're all I have. _Now he was wistful, almost, longing, wanting something.

"But I had her! I know I did! And - and - you took her away from me, didn't you? It wasn't me. My hands, but it wasn't me. You took her away." It was Crane's turn to cry now, although he was quieter than Scarecrow was.

_I told you, Jonathan. You're all I have. I know you loved her, you were her father, you cared for her. But I care about you, too. You forgot about me. We used to be friends, don't you remember? And then she came and ruined everything. I thought we would be together forever. You were supposed to be my friend, not hers. I had to do something, didn't I? I couldn't just let her take you away from me._

It almost made sense to him, but why would Scarecrow have to take something from him? "If you cared as much as you said you did, you wouldn't have hurt her. You wouldn't have hurt me." People who cared about each other didn't do things like that, which he still knew for sure.

_No, you don't understand! I never meant to hurt you! I just wanted to have your attention, okay? I can't talk to anyone else. I'm alone here except for you. You remember what it's like to be alone, right? Remember the darkness? It's like that for me all the time. I know you've probably forgotten, but you used to talk to me all the time. We would treat patients together, and play games together - God, what did you have to forget everything? It would be so much easier if you knew how much we cared for each other._

There was a lie somewhere in that statement, a lie that he could not identify no matter how hard he tried. What reason would the Scarecrow have to lie to him? Not anything terribly convincing, that was for sure. Apparently, he cared deeply for Crane - or so he said. But Scarecrow was all Crane had left, as he was so eager to remind him.

Were they friends?

**A/N: Shoddy ending, but it's about time I got off my ass and posted a chapter.**


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: School's started again! Whoo! I like a lot of my classes so far, which is pretty good. Anyway, I'm having fun exploring this storyline that seems to just pour out without any required planning beforehand. I had thought about a bunch of stuff for after her death, but it's way ahead, like all the way into Batman Begins, and I even have plans that scope out beyond TDK. I could chop this fic off right now, but really, it's just too much fun! Oh, and chapter 30! Yay!**

Finally, after much debating with his other half, Crane decided that maybe sleeping would calm his mind and allow him to think more rationally about the world's most irrational situation. It was, overall, the most entirely illogical day in his entire life. Not as bad as when Scarecrow first introduced himself - lord, he had cried when that happened, assuming that he was losing his mind. Sometimes, he thought he still wondered whether or not he was entirely sane.

He was surprised when he fell right to sleep after laying his head on the pillow. However, what little comfort he drew from slumber didn't last very long, as he was quickly disturbed by violent dreams. Blood everywhere, too much blood, slice slice knife blood bleeding Kathryn pale white cold ice dead crying darkness light too bright want darkness, safer, home.

"No!" he shouted, sitting up in bed with a start. It had already happened, she was already dead, and there was no reason he should be dreaming of her. Actually, there was, for it was quite obvious that he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, but he should be above those sorts of things. A doctor was not supposed to suffer from the disorders he treated, especially if he knew exactly how to manage them. But at the moment, he still had a sense of Kathryn's presence behind him, beside him, everywhere. Surrounding him. He shuddered visibly.

_It's not real, Jonathan. Ignore it. I already told you this, remember? Fuck, Jonathan, listen to me. I am real. She is not. Kathryn is a hallucination. She is dead and gone. There is no one here but you and me. Do not pay attention to anything else. Listen to my voice - focus on it. _Scarecrow sounded exasperated, shaming Crane for a minute that he would upset the person who cared for him most in the world.

"But she's there, Scarecrow. I know you can see her. I know you can! I'm not crazy, I'm not! She's there and you can't deny it. She is sitting right there - and over there - she's in the corner - where is she, really? Which one of her is real?" he whispered. Begging. It was utterly ridiculous that he couldn't tell where his daughter was and where she wasn't. And why hadn't she reacted yet? Normally, Kathryn would have been asking him what was wrong, laying her head in his lap because she hadn't quite woken up yet. To his surprise, though, all the Kathryns were standing with their heads tilted, staring at him, silent.

_None of them are real. Kathryn died yesterday. She - just remember, Jonathan. I don't want to tell you again. Come on, please don't make me tell you this again. I can't - no, I won't. I just won't do that to you._

"I'm tired of your shit! Tell me where my daughter is!" he screamed.

Darkness.

It took much less time for him to forget her this time, as he felt at home in the inky infinity that surrounded him. And when the Scarecrow came to fetch him, Crane chased him off. At least he could still remember who he was, so that he could still remember to be upset at Scarecrow.

"Go away. I want to stay here. Whatever happened, I don't care anymore. Just let me be alone," he snarled. The blindness was comforting, allowed him to open his eyes and escape from the distant visions that were fluttering across his vision at an ever-quickening pace.

_You have to take care of the dog, Jonathan. I don't think she likes me very much. She growled at me._

"I don't care, Scarecrow." There was plenty more he'd like to say, but he decided to keep it to himself, if that was even possible when in the mind of the person he was arguing with.

_Jonathan, I want you to go out there and feed Cliath right now. She's your responsibility! If you're going to be a little bitch about it, you can come back here when you're done, but there's crap on the floor and I'm not cleaning it up._ Mildly amused, he wondered exactly when Scarecrow had gotten such a foul mouth. The amusement was short-lived, as he suddenly remembered that he was still pissed off.

"What did I do to deserve this?" he moaned as the dark pulled away, and he found himself crouched in front of a very frightened and angry looking dog. "Oh, come here, and quit your whining." And she obeyed, albeit rather unwillingly.

After putting down a dish of food and watching Cliath eat it, Crane scooped her up and cradled her in his arms, much to the dog's delight. Her tail wagged lazily as he snuggled her tight against him. The contact reminded him of something, but he had a feeling that he wouldn't want to remember it, so he stopped himself from thinking and focused, instead, on the fuzzy body curled up in his clutches.

_I think you're squeezing it too tight._ When he looked down, Cliath was writhing and making some valiant efforts to leap from his arms, and he loosened his grasp guiltily. _There you go. Don't want to - never mind._

"What was that? What were you saying?" he asked, suspicious of Scarecrow's quick cut-off. Covering things up was not Scarecrow's style, in any way, shape, or form. He was always for 'telling it like it is' and the like.

_Don't worry. It's nothing to concern yourself about, Jonathan. Just forget I said anything._

"Stop lying to me! You son of a bitch, stop lying to me and tell me what you were going to say!" He could not remember a time when he'd been so filled with rage that he was able to express. Normally, circumstances forced him to bottle up his emotions and pretend that he was callous and cold, because most of the idiots he was forced to hire wouldn't appreciate him screaming at them.

_I can't tell you._

"Yes, you can!" When there was no answer, he stood up quickly, sending Cliath tumbling onto the tile floor. Crane stomped up the stairs and went into the bedroom. "Look at this! There's an air mattress in here, but I don't remember who's sleeping on it. And there's blood on my bed, Scarecrow! Tell me what happened!"

_Look, I'm not going to tell you no matter how much you yell at me, so you might as well give up._ No matter how firm his words were, Scarecrow sounded quite upset - though nothing close to what Crane felt. At least Scarecrow's memories were complete, not missing chunks that had been replaced with darkness.

"If you won't tell me, then just fuck off and leave me alone. I hate you," he moaned.

Crane had been prepared for Scarecrow to try and refute what he said, that they were best friends forever and that they cared about each other and all that overly emotional dribble, but he hadn't expected the reaction that he got.

_What the hell are you talking about, Jonathan? I'm the one who's trying to help you out - the only one, mind you - and you just want to brush me off? Yeah, because I'm going to be fine with being locked up again for God knows how long. No. I won't allow it._

Darkness.

Unending darkness.

It came in waves, and every time he felt as if he was remembering something, more of the darkness crashed over him. The only sensory input he had was a faint smell of straw, and after a while, he could not even remember the word for the smell, or how to smell, or what a smell even was.

When he felt as if he had been emptied out entirely, the man remained where he was, curled up tightly. He saw nothing but blackness, all around him, and was not afraid, for he no longer knew what being afraid meant.

_Jonathan?_

That one word was so loud in his ears that he wished to die. He didn't know who or what a Jonathan was, but whoever was asking for it, he wanted them to go away.

_Jonathan, are you all right?_ Far too loud again, and the noises echoed several times before being swallowed up in the darkness.

If the noise was talking to him, he had no idea how to respond to it. He tried to make some sort of sound, but realized that he didn't possess the same capabilities as the noise did.

_Answer me. Are you all right, Jonathan?_ The words didn't even make sense to him. There was no meaning to it, nothing that told him what the noise was asking him.

_Fuck, just say something! Do something! Anything!_ Still, there was no comprehension on the man's part.

_I left you in for too long, didn't I? Why didn't you warn me? What am I supposed to do now? Damn it, I never wanted this! I just wanted you. _The brief pause between noises allowed his tortured ears to rest, which he appreciated. _Tell me how to fix this. I don't know what happened, I don't know how to make this better, come on, Jonathan, please help me. I know you can._

After much strain, he figured out how to use his vocal cords again and moaned, both from pain and from confusion.

_There you are! It's alright, you'll be fine. Just come here, come on. Scarecrow's going to help. Come here._ All of a sudden, there was another man there, standing up, arms outstretched. It hurt his eyes just to look at anything other than blackness, so he closed them, the only motion he knew how to make.

_No you don't! Get over here right now. Stand up!_ It seemed like the noise was telling him to do something, but he couldn't figure out what. He moaned again.

_Fine, then. I'll go over there, if you can't come here._ A few seconds passed, during which his ears were filled with loud, echoing, crashing noises, and then something was on his shoulder.

He screamed. The touch was too hot, agonizingly heavy, and it wasn't going away. _What did I do? Hush, hush, it's going to be alright. Stop screaming, please, you're hurting my ears._

Again, he screamed, because there was nothing else he could do to get the touch off of him. Now he was starting to shake, and violently, which was enough to get the touch off. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember how he made himself shake, and became still.

_What did I do to you, Jonathan? Where did you go that left - this? This thing? It's not you. It's not. You don't act like this. Where are you?_ The noise was upset, but there was a touch against him again, this time all over him, wrapping around and pulling him up, onto a burning hot and bony thing. _Just sit in my lap until we find out where you went. It'll make you feel better._

The man wailed and screeched, finally gaining control of his arm. When he tried to move it, it merely lifted into the air and twitched. _See, there you go. You'll be alright._

He kept wailing, because now the noise was much closer, and therefore much louder. Logically, he should have quieted down, because he was even louder than the noise was, but he wasn't feeling particularly logical at the moment.

_Why are you screaming at me? What's wrong? You have to tell me what's going on! I can't figure it out on my own, you know I can't!_ The noises were more shrill, which meant they cut through his ears straight to the pain center of his brain. His hand snapped out wildly and smacked the other man several times, though he couldn't tell where, as his eyes were still closed..

_What the hell are you doing? Why are you hitting me? Come on, answer me! Please, answer me!_ Obviously, the noise hadn't figured out that it was hurting him, or it was trying to hurt him on purpose. From the tone, it seemed like the noise might be trying to punish him, and he shut his mouth tightly, pulled his arm back against himself, in the hopes that the noise might get quieter if he did.

_Thank you. Now, do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?_ He decided that it might be a good idea to try asking the noise to quiet down, instead of just yelling, if he could figure out how to speak again. Not knowing what any of the words meant didn't help much either, but he was sure he'd manage.

"F- f- p- s-s-s - st- o- p- - stop," he stammered out slowly. Hopefully that would get him to go away, since he had a strange feeling that the word actually meant something.

_What do you want me to stop, Jonathan?_ The noise sounded much calmer, and it was certainly quieter, which was a relief.

"M- mo- noi- noise." The 's' was overly drawn out, but he couldn't help it. Considering the fact that he was learning how to speak on the fly, he felt as if he was doing a pretty good job.

_What noise do you mean?_

The man couldn't comprehend what the noise was saying, but it obviously wasn't understanding what he was asking it to do, so he opened his eyes. Seeing anything other than blackness was still too bright, but he didn't close his eyes again.

Something on the other man's face told him that everything would be okay. Whether it was the look in his eyes, or the furrow in his brow, or the slight purse of his lips, he didn't know, and he wasn't about to question it. Instead, he rubbed his face against the other man's chest and moaned again.

_It's going to be alright, Jonathan. You don't need to be upset._ It was a surprise to him, when he realized that he understood what the noise said without effort. Again, though, he didn't have the urge to question it.

"H-hurts." But when he felt something running through his hair, warm and soothing, it didn't hurt as much anymore.

**A/N: THIS CHAPTER TOOK TOO LONG TO WRITE. Plus I feel like it's sort of ridiculous, and I might scrap it and rewrite.**


	31. Chapter 1K

**A/N: I'm currently suffering from some sort of hardcore writer's block, so I figured I'd try out something new. I thought it might be a wee bit interesting, and I wanted to post up something for you all to read at some point within the next, say, six years, so I decided to do this! Enjoy.**

It wasn't that bad, she remarked to herself between heavy breaths, in Arkham Asylum. Sure, it was dirty and smelly and everyone was shouting, but at least there was no one shouting specifically at _her_. And the food wasn't that bad, when she closed her eyes and pretended that she was somewhere else. But Kit really just wanted to go to sleep, which was unfortunately impossible for her. The lights were too bright, and the bed too uncomfortable. In fact, she'd been unable to sleep since she came in the morning before, which worried her. After all, what if she never slept again? What if she had an attack and Daddy came in and yelled at her? And then he'd get mad when she cried and she would have to hide under the covers until he went away.

Just as she began full-out hyperventilating, someone opened the door slowly, and she couldn't help but scream at the intrusion. "Miss Kathryn? I'm here to take you to your appointment," a male voice called into the small room. Fortunately, the voice was unfamiliar, and she was able to calm down a little bit.

A man came in and grasped her upper arms, helping her to stand and walking her out into the hall. Someone came and did this on the way to meals, too, and she supposed it was better than getting a straitjacket on or something like that, something that would itch or hurt or make her dirty and they didn't have showers nearby.

The orderly dropped her into a chair in an office, a rather uncomfortable wooden chair in a chilly and drab room. Behind the desk, a man with a cool expression and pale blue eyes stared at her, looking sort of confused. Had she done something wrong? No, she hadn't, she'd been in her room and they just took her in here. Whatever it was, she was sure it wasn't her fault.

"I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane. What is your name, miss?" he asked. He did sound mad, he sounded like he was going to punish her, and he drew her knees to her chest to try to protect herself. She was going to get hurt, and she didn't even know what she had done. It just wasn't fair.

"I-it's, uh, it's Kit - no, it's Kathryn," she stammered. In her panic, she'd forgotten to give her real name instead of her nickname. Hopefully, he wouldn't be upset at her.

"Which one is it?" Now he sounded testy, and sort of doubtful. What was he going to do to her, exactly? Maybe he wouldn't yell, maybe he'd just put her back in her room before she started to cry.

"I usually go by Kit, it's been m-my nickname since I was born, but my real name is, uh, Kathryn," Kit explained. Even though he didn't seem as angry now, she couldn't stop imagining what it would sound like when he started yelling. Shaking her head did seem to get rid of the thoughts, though, and she brushed her hair out of her eyes quickly.

"What brings you here today?" he inquired in a curious voice. But there was no reason for him to ask, unless he thought she would lie. And then if she said something wrong…

"Y-you already know that, you don't need me to tell you. It's in that … that little file you have about me." That was definitely not the right answer, but he didn't question it, just picked a file up off his desk and started to read. No, no, no, he was going to yell, and then she would have an attack and he'd yell even louder and she'd get a headache and it always made her stomach hurt.

"How tall are you, and how much do you weigh?" So he'd read her file-thing and now he thought that she was anorexic or something.

She paused a moment before answering, and when she did answer, her voice was hesitant. "I'm, uh, 5'8", maybe 5'9". Last time I was weighed, I think I was 125 pounds. I'm too skinny, I know, but I can't help it. I'm sorry." To avoid the shouting she was certainly about to receive, she pressed her face into her kneecaps.. "They told me that it was okay, but all my … my friends told me that I was too skinny. I'm sorry," she repeated. Maybe if she apologized for it, he wouldn't be upset. It worked with Daddy, before he got so mad about everything.

"You don't need to apologize." _Yes, I do, or you'll yell and hurt my ears and I don't want you to be mad at me, _she thought to herself anxiously. Dr. Crane looked down at his desk for a moment, and she wondered exactly what he was thinking about. Probably making sure he had some sort of drug in there in case he got mad at her and wanted to get rid of her.

"I'm sorry." And she really was quite sorry - sorry that she'd come into the office, sorry that she'd told him anything at all, sorry that was sick and felt like she was having an attack.

"When did you first start experiencing anxiety?" he asked. Why couldn't Mom have been in there, to answer the questions for her like she did when she was being taken out of school, that last time? Then, she didn't even have to talk, she just curled up in the chair and tried not to cry. Now, though, she was alone.

"It was … it was about a year ago. I don't sleep, I can't - can't - can't go anywhere. I was in school the first time, now my - uh, my mom home-schools me. One time I was in the principal's office, one time in - uh, in the doctor's office. Dad thought I was making a ... big deal out of - of nothing, but he didn't understand." This was about the time, usually, that Daddy would interrupt and tell her that if it wasn't illegal, he'd have kicked her out months ago, if he was there. And what if he was? What if he was on speaker phone and listening, or something, and Dr. Crane was going to let him come in and yell at her?

She ran her fingers through her hair three times, which always calmed her down and made some of the bad things go away, but it wasn't enough. "You have to help me. I have to get home! It's not safe here!" she exclaimed. If she stayed, he would come out from wherever he was hiding. Even though she knew that someone would get mad at her, Kit rose up and stumbled toward the door, holding her throat - as if that would help her breathe easier. Even though it never worked, grabbing the front of her neck was a habit she'd gotten into.

"Please sit down, Miss Kathryn." Why was he so calm? Didn't he know that Daddy was coming, and he would yell at the doctor too, for 'encouraging her'. When she tried to open the door and run into the hall, she felt as if she died a little when she realized that she was trapped with this doctor who wasn't doing anything to help, who was just watching and watching.

"No! No, I won't!" All she could think to do was roll into a ball, to insulate herself against any blows that either Dr. Crane or Daddy might let loose on her. While she had never been hit, it always seemed a possibility that he would get too mad one day. "My stomach hurts. I can't breathe," she gasped, hoping that he would know what to do. After all, the nasty man behind the desk was supposed to help her, wasn't he? He was a doctor.

After a minute, there was a sharp pain in her arm, like something was stabbing her. And the doctor didn't even ask whether or not she liked needles - she didn't. "What are you doing? Stop it, stop it!" To her amazement, she didn't fall asleep or get sick like she had thought she would. Instead, the panic went away, and she was able to loosen up the death grip her fingers had on her thighs.

"Are you alright now, Kathryn?" She'd forgotten about Dr. Crane, who sounded to be right above her, and prayed that he wasn't upset. As he helped her to sit back down in the chair, Kit apologized softly. Repetition did often help get a point across. "Are you willing to talk more, or would you like to go back to your room?"

Yes, she did want to talk more. "You have to help me. I know you can. I can't live like this anymore." The anxiety was unbearable, at this point, and she really didn't want to have to deal with it any longer. Whenever she'd asked Mom to talk to a doctor, see if she could get medication, she had been told that there was no way to get rid of it. And every time, Kit had walked away with a sneaking suspicion that she was being lied to.

"How do you normally deal with these attacks?" Dr. Crane asked. Maybe there was hope yet, then, for he wouldn't ask if no one had medication for it.

"I sit on my bed, with my blanket wrapped around me. I tap out rhythms on the mattress to distract myself, until I can breathe again. It takes a long time," she replied. Just thinking about the hours she spent huddled up in her room made her depressed. Those hours could have been used to draw, or clean, or even sleep, instead of waiting and crying.

"I can give you medication to prevent your attacks, or something to take when you start them." Well, why hadn't he told her that earlier? There was no reason to keep her waiting, in the dark about her future … unless he was just holding it over her head, with no intent to help her in any way? It wouldn't surprise her, considering the doctor's attitude toward her so far.

"My parents told me that there was nothing they could do. That's why they sent me here. Are you … you're not kidding? You can help me?" she whispered. She just had to check, to make sure he wasn't lying.

He pulled off his glasses before speaking, a mannerism that Kit thought was out and out weird. "the medications can be addictive, but I think they would really help you." At that moment, she was tempted to fall on her knees and kiss his feet.

"Anything. Anything that might help."

"How often do you have panic attacks?" he asked, writing on a note pad while she counted up in her head. The past week had been her worst ever, with an attack every day, which was the whole reason her mom had admitted her. 'I can't watch this anymore. You need help, Kit,' she'd been told yesterday morning after she'd recovered from her attack.

And she'd found herself in a tiny, disgusting room all by herself, with nothing to do, no one to talk to, and nothing to eat. Despite all that, though, she was glad to be there, because it meant she would have a chance of getting better.

"About once a week usually, but last week I had six and then one today so that's seven and hopefully I won't have another, but I might not come back here, I'll have another one if I come back here. I'll have another attack and then I'll get in trouble, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" She wasn't sure what else to say, being too surprised at her loose lips to continue a sentence.

"It's alright, Kathryn. You won't get in trouble here. Just calm down," he chuckled. The fact that he was laughing at her did not go unnoticed. She couldn't help but worry that she would get in trouble, painful loud and screaming trouble. While Dr. Crane didn't seem like the yelling type, there was a look about him that made her shudder - a chilly sort of menace in his eyes.

"Calm? I haven't been calm in a year. I can't stop worrying." Even before the attacks started, she was kept awake at night by anxieties she couldn't chase. Thinking about it, she laughed humorlessly.

"I'm going to start you on paroxetine. It's a popular choice for people like you, who have panic disorder. I will warn you now that there are several side effects. If you notice anything, please let me know." He smiled at her, a smile which she did not return, instead trying furiously not to cry from joy and worry. He was actually going to help her! For the first time, someone was making an effort to help her get better, instead of writing it off or pretending it wasn't happening or yelling. It was a wondrous feeling, really, to know that something might change for the better.

After a few silent minutes, Crane asked if she was ready to return to her room, and she nodded, picking up a phone and calling for someone to get her. Obviously their time was up, and while she would have much preferred to stay in Dr. Crane's office, which had a comfortable-looking couch, she just nodded. "You'll have your first dose of medication with your meal tonight. How does that sound?" he asked. Again, she nodded.

_Please don't make me go back. Please, please, I don't want to go back. I want to stay here, it's safe here, it's clean and comfy and I really want to stay here it's clean and I need to sleep, can't sleep there, don't make me go back to where it's cold and I don't like it, please please please please please._ Obviously, her desperation wasn't evident on her face, as he just let an orderly take her away and drag her back to her little cell.

"Why couldn't I stay there?" she pleaded with the orderly. Obviously, the man either had no compassion or was very good at his job. "Please, it's scary here. Can you take me back to his office, please? At least give me another blanket. It's cold in there," she whispered. By the time she finished begging, they were outside her cell - or at least, she assumed it was her cell, as it was empty and they'd stopped moving.

"I'll bring you a blanket," the orderly conceded before pushing her into the room. Satisfaction from her victory kept the worry away until she had received her blanket and was curled up beneath her blankets and sheets. The multiple layers were almost enough to ward off the chill, which would help when she tried to sleep.

No matter how many times she thought about it, Kit couldn't shake the feeling that things were going to get worse before they get better.

**A/N: Well, that was the filler-ish surprise! I'm going to continue doing this, though, because I liked writing it and the whole reason I wrote this chapter was so that I could explore other aspects of the story from Kathryn's POV. Please let me know how you liked it, and whether or not you want me to keep working! Oh, and by the way, I will be writing chapters back in the main timeline, they just won't be every chapter from now on.**


	32. Chapter 2K

**A/N: So, we're still in the whole surprise section (if you haven't read the last chapter, do it now before reading on!) and I'm still enjoying it. It writes very quickly, yet I churn out more words doing it, which is awesome.**

The night before her appointment, Kit was cursing Dr. Crane's name. She was trying to sleep, and found herself wrapped in several blankets, shuffling around and crying. There was the most atrocious sensation of bugs, both on her skin and inside her body, that made it impossible to keep still. For the sixteenth time, she made an effort to sit down on the bed, since her legs were entirely too exhausted to keep walking. However, after about a minute and a half, her pounding headache made her jump onto her feet.

"Why did you do this to me?" she wailed. Her fist smacked angrily into the wall, causing her sobs to grow louder. "I n-need to sleep, Dr. C-crane! Let m-me go to sleep!"

Until the orderly came to get her, she continued in this way. Even when her legs screamed with exhaustion, even when her mind cried out to her that she needed to sleep or fall over, she continued to pace, because it was better than the alternative. She ate breakfast on her feet, despite multiple protests from the orderly.

"Look, Miss Kathryn, you need to sit down while you're eating or we'll have to restrain you," he admonished wearily. To that, she just shook her head and continued hopping from foot to foot, gnawing at a piece of toast. "Alright then." Then there were hands on her, pushing her down onto the cafeteria table's attached bench. Those same hands strapped her legs down to the table and cuffed her hands together.

"Please let me up. Please, please, it hurts to sit, the bugs are hurting me! You're hurting me! L-l-let me go, please - no, no, don't yell at me, please, don't yell, daddy -" She cut off abruptly at that, and her head snapped up to confirm that the man pinning her down was in fact not her father. He wasn't, but that didn't make her fear him any less. "You're making it hurt, please, there are bugs inside and they hurt me and I need to walk around, you have to do something," she sobbed.

A hand ran through her hair. "Just eat your breakfast, kid." The orderly seemed to be a bit more friendly than before, perhaps because of the tears. His actions did nothing to assuage her panic.

"Nonono, please, get it off, I need to move around, p-please. I'm g-gonna be sick," she stammered, before vomiting on her tray. It wasn't much, but it was enough to convince the orderly to remove the straps from her legs and allow her to spring up, running as far as she could manage to get before he grasped her upper arms firmly.

"I-I'm sorry, s-sir, but it h-h-hurts too m-much, p-please - don't -" If she finished the sentence, she feared that she would give the now-angry orderly ideas about how to punish her, and she wasn't really willing to get beaten if she could avoid it.

"Miss Kathryn, just stand still and eat. I'm bending the rules for you as it is," the orderly groaned. It wasn't her fault that she was suffering so, so he had no right to blame her. It was all Dr. Crane's doing, anyways. He was the one who'd given her the pills and put the bugs inside her because clearly Daddy told him to make her hurt and it wasn't fair, why did she have to hurt like this when she didn't do anything to anyone, it wasn't right, she needed to move around and he wouldn't let her and he was holding her too tight and shaking her shoulders and she felt like she was going to be sick again all over him and then he would be madder and she was going to get hurt.

"Answer me! What is wrong with you?" he shouted. By now, other people in the cafeteria had started to stare at her, watching the orderly try to shake an answer out of her, which wasn't working, as she was no longer paying attention to him, being too busy sobbing. "I'm calling Dr. Crane."

Hearing the doctor's name was enough to snap her to attention. "N-n-no, d-don't c-c-call him, p-p-please d-don't. I'll be g-good." If Dr. Crane came, he would give her more pills that made her hurt all over, and then she'd never sleep and she would get sick and die.

"Then sit down and eat your breakfast, take your pills, and stop making such a fuss," he ordered. Obviously, he didn't understand exactly what was wrong with her, or he wouldn't be trying to make her hurt by having her sit down. The biting things were bad enough when she was standing still, just moving her feet up and down, but sitting was unbearable.

"P-please, I'll t-take the p-p-pills, just d-don't make me s-s-sit d-down, s-sir. It h-hurts." Finally, he seemed to get the point, handing her the pills and a cup of water. She took them and allowed the orderly to lead her back into her room.

"You have an appointment with Dr. Crane at 11:45, so I'll be back in three hours," he informed her before leaving and locking the door.

She was alone with the bugs that were now crawling furiously all over her body. For the next three hours, Kit alternated between pacing, trying to sleep, and pounding weakly on the door. Several times, other patients yelled at her to be quiet, but each person stopped when she started screeching.

"If you don't quiet down, I'm going to call Dr. Crane," the orderly warned from outside the door. Obviously, he had realized that threatening to call the doctor really got under her skin, made her more frightened than ever. His words did have the intended effect, as she clamped her mouth shut tight.

The hours passed with agonizing slowness until an orderly came to fetch her - a different one than she'd seen earlier in the day and yesterday. He was younger and seemed more nervous. "I'm here to take you to your appointment, Miss Kathryn," he stammered.

Kit looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot. "Where is he - the other orderly? He was nice to me, I like him." By 'liked him', she meant 'didn't start having a fit at the very thought of him'.

"Uh, Will's off for the rest of the day, so I'm taking over for today. Is that alright?" As if she was allowed to say 'no, I want the guy who's not in the building to come back here, take me to my appointment, and then go home'. She nodded, and together, they left the room.

As they went down the hall, her anger and desperation grew until her hands were shaking and her legs hardly held her weight - although that second part might have more to do with exhaustion than emotion. She was unable to even walk into his office properly; instead, she stumbled in, barely staying vertical as he tried to get her to sit. It was just like the orderly - Will, his name was - and just like before, she refused.

"I don't know what you did, but I couldn't sleep at all last night. I had to - couldn't lie down. I'm tired. Couldn't sleep. Tired," she groaned, shifting rapidly from foot to foot. He looked confused by her appearance and her actions; obviously, she looked more tired than she had anticipated.

"Will you sit down for just a few minutes?" he asked. Though she tried to escape his grip, Dr. Crane managed to trap her in the wooden chair she'd sat in the day before. Standing up was impossible, though she did try, and her head fell at the realization. Already, the headache was back, along with the writhing tightness, and he just held her there.

"Explain what's wrong, as precisely as you can." The little movements she could manage, mostly twitching, weren't enough to get rid of the bugs, to her dismay.

"I took that pill they gave me - seroxat, whatever it is, I don't care - and by the time I wanted to go t-to sleep, I couldn't sit still. Every time I tried to lie down, I had to twitch my legs, then I had to stand up and pace around. It hurts when I don't. It makes everything feel all … tight. I don't know. There are little things under my skin. My head aches. I need to move. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't get me in trouble. My insides hurt." Finally, she was able to spring up and rush around the room, at a high speed to make up for the time spent sitting. He really didn't understand, did he, the pain that his stupid pills were causing her. How could he not realize what he was doing? Obviously, Dr. Crane was some sort of heartless machine who just gave out pills and pretended to be nice and caring and believing that you weren't lying and made the attacks go away and really it just wasn't fair at all, nothing was fair to her, was it? Everything in the world was out to get her - Daddy, Dr. Crane, Arkham Asylum, dirt, the kids at her old school who had laughed when she started crying in the middle of class.

"What do you mean, your insides hurt?" He sounded almost concerned, but Kit wasn't falling for it anymore. He didn't care about her, nobody did.

"I sit down and everything starts to hurt. It's like someone is … like something is, uh, crawling around in there. It hurts, it hurts," she moaned. Now that she'd been forced to think about it, there was a stabbing pain in her stomach - from the bugs, probably - and she used one hand to try to brush it away while the other tapped against the wall. Tapping out rhythms wasn't helping like it used to, either.

Dr. Crane had even taken that from her.

When he replied, it was with clinical curiosity, like that of a scientist examining a specimen he was dissecting. On a different day, that tone might have made her jump away, curl up in a corner. Today, though, she was barely listening. "Yet you say it feels better when you move?"

"A little bit, y-yeah. At least I can think when I move. But can't you do something? You made everything worse! Oh, oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to … I'm sorry." Kit threw her hands over her head, so that her forearms and elbows protected her face. If he was mad - and she was sure that he was - at least she wouldn't have to watch this way, but she would still have to listen.

She continued pacing, even though she was unable to see, because running into walls wasn't enough to make her stop moving and let the bugs take over again. Long-fingered hands - like spiders, and they were biting her - grasped her shoulders to stop her pacing. To her credit, she did struggle to get away, avoid the yelling, not have it be in her face, but he was stronger than her.

"Kathryn, we - I can help you. But you have to be patient. We'll wait a week or so to see if the symptoms go away; meanwhile, you'll stay on the dose you're currently prescribed of seroxat. Is that okay?" He was talking in that voice that made it sound like he cared again, as he tried to pull apart the only barrier she currently had between her face and his. She still didn't understand why he had to pretend to want to help, if he got paid either way, because he wasn't helping and he obviously knew it.

"Please, you have to make it better. You told me you would help me. You t-told me you would help me - you're the first. No one else believed me. They thought I was making - faking it. But now there's things crawling inside of me. Tiny little bug-things and I need to move around or they make my head hurt and you didn't tell me about that and I'm tired and I'm exhausted but I can't sleep and my stomach feels funny like I'm having an attack but you said that medicine you put me on would help make everything go away but it didn't and the little things are still there and my head - I'm sorry," she finished, taking in a deep breath. Finally, he let her go, but she didn't have the energy to start pacing again, instead shuffling around the edge of the room, still protecting her face. Just in case.

When she peeked at him from between her elbows, he was writing something down on a pad of paper. Probably observations about her, or some other doctor thing that was almost definitely entirely innocuous. Almost definitely. Unless it was a letter to Daddy, telling him that he could come and get her now, she just had these pills to take every day and if she whined too much hitting her would probably work and she probably won't sleep much but he didn't need to worry about it, people didn't need sleep anyways and if he was having trouble he could just call Arkham and Dr. Crane would come over and take care of it.

"Kathryn, if you want I can give you a sedative and you can sleep here in my office for a while," he proposed. That did sound nice, although she was wary of staying in his office without being able to wake up if he tried something. Still, sleeping was so enticing to her at the moment that she couldn't resist. Although the bugs wouldn't let her stop shuffling around, that much she knew, she did turn around after dropping her arms. He would like that. Letting down barriers, opening up her body language, not being so defensive - a psychiatric thing.

"And the sedatives will let me go to sleep? Will it make the crawling things go away?" Why couldn't she just believe him for once, instead of taking stupid risks like this?

"Well … I suppose it would make the _crawling things_ go away, since it would force you to fall asleep. You'll be asleep for awhile, maybe nine hours or so. Is that alright?" She nodded at that - nine hours of sleep sounded just _heavenly - _and drew closer to Dr. Crane, even though it went against every paranoid part of her mind that shouted, 'No, you idiot, what are you doing? He's just going to yell at you! He won't help, he just wants to hurt you! Back away! Don't keep walking! Stop moving!' This internal conflict made her steps jerky, moving forward and backward at the same time.

He pulled out a syringe from his desk. "I'm going to use an injection because it'll work faster." Shit, didn't he know that she really didn't like needles? Really, really didn't like needles? At all? She instantly grasped her upper arms to prevent him from sticking her, sidling away.

"No shots. No shots," she begged, but he just shook his head. Why, exactly, did she agree to let him do this?

"This is the best way. Do you want to go to sleep or not?" What a jerk. Reminding her of what she wanted, just to get his drugs in her veins. To her dismay, though, it worked - her hands fell away from her arms, and she let him stick her with his god-awful needle.

Within minutes, she was completely out. She had a feeling it was on his couch, but she wasn't really paying attention by the time she was laying down. By that point, she could have been sleeping in the middle of a busy highway, as long as she got to sleep.


	33. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Okay. I know there's been a massive and unexplainable delay. Please forgive me for that. I also know that you're all expecting an update in this chapter. Forgive me for that as well.**

**I wanted to let you all know that Panic is finished.**

**The problem is, I've basically run out of juice for this story. I don't want to leave everyone hanging, thinking that there will be another in-continuity update. There won't be. Not yet, anyways.**

**If there is another chapter, I will update. I just wanted to inform everyone that if you never hear from me again, please don't be mad!**

**I want to use this space to give mad props to my reviewers. Delu, Dragonfly2224, I AM The Batman Dag Nab It, Vampire-of-Death-1888, Blackmoonlite, Dannerluv, le-vrai-visqueux, Opalescent Pearls, MaryMarvel, fEmAleNoMad, SaneLunatic, Reivewer (sorry I don't have a name to thank you properly!), LC, TheOtherMaddHatter, catincanada, ChaoticDeviance, and theatre-gypsy. You all are amazing, and I don't think I could have done it without you. Really, seeing all those positive reviews often gave me the boost to write another chapter.**

**This probably isn't the ultimate end forever, and I might just throw you guys off and post a chapter tomorrow, then not have anything up for weeks or months. I just thought I should inform you of that.**

**Hope you enjoy the rest of the story, slow as it will be in coming.  
**


	34. Chapter 31

**A/N: It's been a long, long time. Welcome back, readers, to the world of Kathryn and Jonathan. I hope you enjoy your stay, after the long hiatus. And please don't be too mad that it took so long!**

_Now, Jonathan, I'm going to take you out, okay? We're going to go out of the dark. Is that alright?_ The noise was hesitant, which was good, because the man was not at all willing to leave. He shook his head, or rather, he slammed his head into the other man's chest in a very jerky manner.

"N-n-n-," he stuttered nervously. If looking at the other man was bad enough, then being out of the dark would be intolerable. The light was bad - terrible, even - and he didn't like the hurting brought about by seeing anything other than darkness.

_Do you not want to go out?_ He wished that there was an easier way to get the message across, that he just wanted to stay in the darkness forever. The meanings for words were flowing back into his brain, and that was certainly useful.

"I - I l-like d-d-dark." He did like the dark, certainly, but the more pressing question in his mind dealt primarily with the definition of 'I'. Something in his brain reminded him that people had names, and 'man' was not a name, even if one did attach such a self-assured adjective as 'the' to it. Surely there were other men, outside the dark, or he would not know a word for what he was. So what was his name?

_Alright, we won't go out. Are you alright? You look upset._

"M-my name?" It wasn't quite the right wording; he felt as if he was missing something.

_Damn it, you didn't forget this much last time. Why didn't you tell me it had gotten like this? You didn't say anything, so it's not my fault._

"My n-n-name?" he asked loudly, gesturing madly to try and indicate his urgency. The effect of the frantic gestures was somewhat lost, though, as he didn't yet have the control to avoid hitting himself in the face.

_It's Jonathan. Jonathan Edward Crane._ The noise sounded impatient, and he didn't want to upset it, or it would take him out of the dark.

"Wh-who is J-j-jonathan?" Hopefully, the man would figure it out without further confusion, because he really had no idea how to ask what he wanted to ask.

_That's you. I already told you that. You're a doctor at Arkham Asylum - though I'm surprised they haven't fired you yet, based on how little you go into the office nowadays. Actually, you're the director, so I guess that's why you're still getting a paycheck. You are twenty-seven years old, five foot seven inches tall, one hundred thirty one pounds, dark brown hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, any of this ringing a bell for you?_ As it continued, the noise got more and more insistent, louder and more hurried, until Jonathan moaned.

"You?" he said, once the noise had died down.

_I'm - I'm Scarecrow. I'm - well, I guess I'm a part of you … sort of? We're separate, but we share a body, normally. I care about you, and you - well, you like me. _What an unsatisfactory explanation, but he'd have to accept it anyways, since he couldn't question it, having barely the comprehension skills to understand what Scarecrow was saying.

"Where - where are w-we?" There, that seemed like a complete sentence, finally. Nuances of grammar were starting to come back to him, but unfortunately, the return of such important memories of muscle control and voluntary swallowing brought along with them a great sadness, and he would rather have been allowed to remain unaware, to avoid all the agony that sentience seemed to bring.

_We're inside your mind. None of this is real, it's just your thoughts mixed with mine to make this - shelter, I guess you could call it? Yes, a shelter. But you can't stay here forever, Jonathan. It's been three days since you called Arkham and I need you to talk to them, I can't be civil with that tramp Lea. She's the front secretary, and has sort of a thing for you._ He did remember Lea, now that he thought hard enough, and although he couldn't picture her appearance, he could tell that she was attached to him. Apparently, Scarecrow didn't much care for her, so he wouldn't either.

"There's no reason to leave. I don't need to talk to them," he replied, happy that he was able to put together a pair of full sentences without stuttering. He honestly felt that he didn't need to leave the darkness, because it made him happy. He was with Scarecrow, away from the people at Arkham, who didn't seem to appreciate him very much, based on what Scarecrow was saying.

_Yes, you do. We need some money, and if you get fired, you'll probably have trouble getting another job. We'll be stuck out on the street. It's cold out there, and there's not much food to be had when you're homeless. Do you understand me? If you lose this job, we might die._ How reassuring. He hoped that if they did die, they would go back into the dark.

"Alright. Only for a little bit, though," he conceded. There was a grand feeling of joy that radiated from Scarecrow, all the way out through the darkness.

_We'll take this slow, okay, dear? Just - close your eyes. It'll make things easier._

He did close his eyes, and instantly wished he could gouge them out. As the dark started to pull away, bit by bit, he felt like the light was setting his mind afire. "I want to go back!" he wailed.

_No, Jonathan, you promised that you would call them. You have to get used to it. Be a man and open your eyes._

"But it hurts! You didn't tell me it would hurt." His voice was barely a whisper. Everything burned too much for him to talk any louder. Agony, agony, agony. White-hot burning agony, ripping his eyelids apart particle by particle until the light shone straight through them and it was burning, as boiling tears streamed down his face and scalded the skin they traveled atop.

_Be a man, Jonathan. You can handle it. Now, I want you to open your eyes._

No! No, no, no! His eyelids were the only things providing any protection against the burning light. He wasn't about to open them.

_I don't care if it hurts. You need to do this._

Trying to turn away from the light, Jonathan discovered something miraculous. He could turn _inward_ to avoid the light, and found himself back in the darkness. Beautiful, soothing blackness, like ice against his charred eyes.

Much too soon, he was dragged back out into the light and experienced the shredding burning all over again. _Come on, Jonathan. All I want you to do is make a phone call and explain to Lea why you've not been to work over the past week. It won't take too long, I promise._

He paused. It seemed like Scarecrow was leaving something out, something important. "Why haven't I been at work, then?" he asked quietly, cradling his head in his hands and crying softly.

A long hesitation.

_It's not important._

That was it? That was all the explanation he was going to give?

_Well, no, I mean, it is important, but just not right now. I'll tell you later. For right now, just tell her you were having family issues. I'm sure she'll understand what you mean_.

"Family? I have family?" He smiled at that, through the cooling tears and the pain. Family would help him get over this crushing fear of light, wouldn't it?

Another long pause.

_Well … listen, Jonathan, you're not going to like hearing this, but … you had a daughter._

"Had?" He didn't want to focus on the 'daughter' part of it, because he guessed this wasn't good news. At the moment, the only good news he could think of was that his eyes weren't feeling like fire anymore, and that was fortunate enough.

_She … she … Jonathan, she's dead._

Dead?

He had a dead daughter?

"How - how - how did she die?" Nothing else he could think of to ask, through the gripping pain that tugged at his heart and threatened to tear it from his chest.

_Slit wrists._

At least he still understood that reference, through the tarry walls around his memories. "When?"

_About a week ago now._

"And you left me in the dark?!" Literally and figuratively.

_It was hurting you, dear. You didn't need to know._

"Didn't need to know? Didn't need to know?" he asked, finally opening his eyelids the tiniest bit and shrieking in pain for a moment. Suddenly, a more pressing question came to mind. Rather unprompted, certainly, but important nonetheless.

"Did she love me?" Pause. "Did I love her?" He had a feeling that he did - images of morning smiles, a sleeping child, fluttered like leaves on the breeze through his mind. Every time he tried to catch one, another fragment distracted him, and everything flowed through his fingers.

_Yes, of course she loved you. More than anything, I think. And … you did love her. I don't think you'll ever comprehend how much you cared for each other._

"Who was she?" Weren't there pictures of them, of her, anywhere?

_If you open your eyes, there's a bureau in front of you, and the picture in the center is her. Please … please don't be upset with me, Jonathan._

Finally, he allowed his eyelids to spring open and was completely taken with the blinding pain for a few seconds.

When he was able to see, the sheer number of shapes, of planes that reflected light back toward his eyes, was astounding. There were _things_ everywhere. He hadn't remembered the world being so busy. And atop the bureau - odd, boxy thing it was - there were frames, all filled with glassy pictures. Most were of a man that he finally identified as himself, but there was one in the center, just where Scarecrow had described it, that showed a girl.

A young girl, probably sixteen years old. Thin as a rail, lanky, long-limbed. Pale skin, high cheekbones, a stubborn chin, a sweet grin. Nose slightly too big for her pixie face. Big stormy blue eyes with an innocent sparkle to them that almost made him laugh. A shock of blonde hair, cut shaggy and framing her face.

His daughter.

_Beautiful, isn't she? You adopted her from Arkham a few months ago. Almost a year, actually. She had panic disorder. One of the most severe cases we'd had in a long time._ Scarecrow stopped speaking, and Jonathan supposed that he was expected to respond.

There was nothing to say.

He actually had nothing to say.

'Well, that sucks, but I can always adopt another'? 'Why did she kill herself'? 'I want her back'?

No, none of those were the right answer. There was no answer to the thousands of questions in his head - except for one.

Panic.

Who was going to patch him together now? He didn't have a family. She was dead. And he couldn't even use memories of her, because Jonathan no longer knew who his own daughter was. All he had was Scarecrow, and he didn't even know what Scarecrow was. Was he crazy, and Scarecrow was a hallucination? Was he possessed by demons? Did he possess some sort of telepathic powers?

_Relax, Jonathan. You're about to break the picture frame,_ Scarecrow told him, worry in his voice. Instantly, Jonathan recoiled, setting the picture on the bureau and stepping back several feet, his legs shaky and uncertain.

"No. No, no, no. I have to - she can't just - I need someone, I need - I need -"

And then he started to sob, his head cradled in his hands as he crumpled to the floor.

He was alone.

**A/N: Well? What did you think? Worth the wait?**


	35. Chapter 32

**A/N: I am rather disappointed that I only have one review so far from the last chapter. But that's okay, because I'm optimistic that I might get more reviews if I add more chapters!**

_Jonathan, you're going to be alright. Calm down._

Sure, Scarecrow could talk all he wanted, but he wasn't the one crying in a ball on the floor because he had forcibly forgotten about his dead daughter. Scarecrow was the one who'd stuck him in the dark in the first place, wasn't he? And he hadn't let him out until it burned him to feel light against his skin, until he'd forgotten who or what or where he was, until he didn't even know what a human being was anymore. And Scarecrow wanted him to calm down.

_Yes, Jonathan, I do want you to calm down. I understand that you're … upset with me, I do, but I need you to make that phone call for me before we talk about this._

"How can you be so selfish?!" Jonathan screamed, pounding his fist against the floor. "You told me that you would always care, didn't you? I remember that. You wanted me to feel better. You … wanted me? I don't even know what that _means_, but you said it and now you don't even care about me, do you? Call them yourself. I'm going back to the dark."

When he turned inwards again, Scarecrow didn't yank him out into the light as he had earlier. Instead, he followed him and sat several feet away. A good safe distance, considering the fact that Jonathan really wanted to rip his head off.

_Look, I know it seems selfish, but I just can't play you well enough to talk to Lea, and we can't have the board booting us out. They'd understand if Lea explained to them, though. So why don't you just come with me and we'll call, then you can come back here - if you want to._

"I don't want you to convince me! I just want to stay here and I don't care about Arkham or Lea or you, Scarecrow. You can do whatever the hell you want with my body, just leave me alone!" With that, Jonathan turned away and curled into a ball as a wave of darkness pulsed through him.

_No, Jonathan! You come here right now or I swear, I will make you regret it._ No response from Jonathan, because he wasn't in the mood to deal with Scarecrow's whining and empty threats. After all, if he cared so much, he wouldn't have hurt him in the first place.

_All right, then, if that's how you want it…_

Screeching.

Loud, keening wailing.

It rang through his ears, making him add his own voice to the cacophony. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!"

_Not until you agree to call them._

"No!"

Although it seemed impossible, the noise grew louder, accompanied by a random sequence of blindingly bright lights. Now two of his senses were being assaulted, no matter how tightly he shut his eyes or plugged his ears.

_Call them._

Again, he denied it, shaking his head, although it may have been hard for Scarecrow to understand the gesture, as he was shivering madly anyways.

Now, to accompany the sensory overload, agonizing pain wracked his body, more painful than anything he'd ever experienced. It was as if every bone in his body was trying to rip itself free, and his muscles burned, and his skin felt covered in boiling acid.

_Call them, Jonathan._

Still he shook his head, though for what reason he wasn't sure, as he really wanted the torment to stop.

_Call them._ Everything grew by a factor of ten - the noise, the lights, the pain - until he could no longer control himself, tossing on the ground like a fish out of water, if fish could scream and sob.

_Call them._ Another factor of ten. By now, Jonathan was certain that his eardrums had burst, his eyes fallen from his skull, his entire body burned away, leaving nothing but pain behind.

_Call them._ How did it keep growing? Now his entire being felt as if it had been ripped to shreds, crushed under a two-ton weight, dropped off a cliff, pounded by a waterfall, rubbed with sandpaper, doused with the strongest acid, and finally tossed into a bonfire. Pure, exquisite agony.

_For the love of God, Jonathan, just call them!_

Finally, as the pain grew to what had to be its peak, Jonathan consented with a thought. **Alright.**

With that, his awareness faded away.

*

_Jonathan? Jonathan? Come on, it's alright. I'm sorry._

When he heard the noise, his first reaction was to curl into a ball, to shield himself from the coming onslaught. Even the quiet words Scarecrow murmured sounded unbearably loud.

_I didn't mean to do that. I promise. You don't have to call them if you don't want to._

As he returned more fully to consciousness, Jonathan noted the lingering pain - not nearly as intense, more of a dull fiery ache, like he had exercised well beyond his capabilities. Still, it was enough of a reminder.

"No more hurting. I'll be good, I promise. Please don't hurt me," he whispered, his eyes shut tightly.

_Of course not, Jonathan. I won't hurt you again._

"I'll call, I'll call - no, no, don't, please don't hurt me, I'll call them!" In his fervor to avoid punishment, Jonathan tore himself from the darkness and, sobbing, stumbled on weak and pained legs until he found a phone. The number flew to his mind, probably dragged up by his panic, and he dialed it.

"Hello, Arkham Asylum reception," a cheery and pleasant voice answered.

"It's - it's Jonathan," he stammered.

"Dr. Crane?" she asked after a moment. "Where on earth have you been for the last week?"

He paused, trying to remember exactly what Scarecrow had told him to say. "Family issues."

Fortunately, she seemed to understand what that meant. "Is Kathryn all right?"

Of course she had to ask. "No … she … killed herself."

"Oh, Dr. Crane, I'm so sorry! I had no idea! Take as much time as you need. I'll explain to the board. I'm sorry," she repeated. He could almost hear the tears in her voice.

"I'll talk to you later, Lea." And then he hung up.

_Come here, Jonathan. You're going to be all right._ Scarecrow was pulling him, gently, back into the darkness. He couldn't help but flinch away from his other half as far as he possibly could. Obviously, he was being taken in for more punishment, so he really ought to be prepared before it started.

_No, no, no, Jonathan. I'm not going to hurt you again. I'm so sorry._

"I did good, Scarecrow. I called Lea and she said you had as much time as you wanted. I did good. Don't hurt me," he begged, ducking his chin against his chest and shutting his eyes.

_I already told you, I'm not going to hurt you again. My temper got away from me, that's all. And you know how stubborn both of us are. Will you forgive me?_ Scarecrow sounded like he was begging too, though Jonathan couldn't understand why, as he wasn't the one about to be hurt. Hopefully, he might realize the fear he'd instilled in Jonathan and pull back, although based on the punishment he'd just dished out, he didn't have much in the way of pity.

"Okay, I forgive you. Just don't be mad at me, please." Scarecrow's hands ran through Jonathan's hair softly, slowly, setting his tortured nerves aglow. "No, I said what you wanted me to say. You don't have to hurt me. Please, Scarecrow, don't." Panicked, he shuffled away from Scarecrow and into the recesses of the dark, where shadows hid his location and covered his eyes completely.

_How can I convince you that I'm not going to hurt you again?_

"Please don't. Please. I forgive you, I forgive you, just don't - don't -" Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and though he tried to stop them so Scarecrow wouldn't be mad, nothing worked to halt the flow.

_No, Jonathan, please don't cry. I'm sorry. Don't cry, please._

Oh, now he was making Scarecrow mad - he couldn't help but whimper and flinch back several inches. "I'm sorry - I thought I did good. You shouldn't be mad at me. Jonathan did good, right? You don't need to be mad at Jonathan. I did what you wanted. Scarecrow, don't be mad at me. I'm sorry I was bad. I know I was bad. Jonathan was bad. Please don't punish me. I'll do it myself, see?" There was a knife in his hand then, and he held it for a moment, blinking tears out of his eyes, before drawing it across his wrist lightly.

_Jonathan, what on Earth are you doing? Stop that!_

"I'll do it more, just don't - see, I'll do it." The next cut was harder, more jagged, and he gasped at the pain. "See, Jonathan did good. See, Scarecrow?" He held his bleeding arm out to Scarecrow, smiling haphazardly. "I'm not bad anymore. I'm good now, like Scarecrow. You don't have to hurt me any more, right? You can be nice to Jonathan now, right?" With that realization, he beamed, walking towards Scarecrow with both his arms outstretched.

_O- of course I can be nice to you, Jonathan. You didn't have to do that. I wasn't going to hurt you. And you were never bad. I was bad. I shouldn't have done that to you, just like you shouldn't have done … never mind. It's alright. Now come on, Jonathan, come with me. We need to go to a doctor._

That confused him for a second. "Why?"

_Because you're bleeding, that's why._ Scarecrow pulled him out into reality again, and he looked down to see that there were bloody cuts on his wrist, two of them - one shallow, one deep and uneven. Not only that, but every exposed patch of skin had a rosy tint to it, like he'd been sunburned. That was probably from earlier. Maybe it was a reminder to not be bad anymore.

"I'm sorry, Scarecrow. I thought you wanted me to hurt to make me good again," he whispered, running his finger beside the deeper cut. It stung, but he found that he appreciated the pain, as he doubted Scarecrow would hurt him again if he was already hurt.

_No, Jonathan. I don't want you to be hurt._

"I did bad? I - I'm sorry. I thought … please don't - don't! I told you I was trying to be good! You don't have to! The doctor will fix it and I won't be hurt anymore. I'm sorry! I don't know what you want Jonathan to do, I don't know, you hurt me and then you don't want me to hurt, and you get mad and then you're not mad, and I'm just really confused, Scarecrow, so please don't be mad at me. I don't like it."

_Let's go to the hospital and get your arm fixed, all right? I'm not mad at you. I've never been mad at you. Just relax. I'll call an ambulance for you._

_While Scarecrow picked up a phone and dialed, Jonathan retreated into the dark, curled into a ball, and nursed the wounds on his arm, crying softly all the while and muttering Scarecrow's name into his kneecaps._


	36. Chapter 33

**A/N: Welcome to the regularish updating schedule of Panic! I'm back, babies, with a vengeance and an urge to make Jonathan as innocently cute as possible. Hope you're enjoying the new (alternate universe for the moment!) direction. I was hoping to have this up yesterday, but I didn't get a chance to finish it.**

Jonathan was roused from his rest by Scarecrow's gentle prodding, which still made him flinch momentarily before remembering that Scarecrow had promised not to hurt him again. "What?" he mumbled, voice groggy as if from sleep.

_We're at the hospital. Do you want to talk to anyone, or can I do it?_ Scarecrow asked quietly.

"I can do it. I can be good, right, Scarecrow? Jonathan is good. You said so. What do I have to say?" He was almost eager to prove himself to his other half, to show that he was worthy of something other than punishment.

_Well, I told the EMTs that you were putting up a shelving unit in the garage and scraped your arm, so just explain that. And whatever you do, don't mention me. Nobody can know about me, alright, Jonathan? You promise you won't tell anyone? _To that, he nodded, and after another confirmation, Scarecrow relinquished control of their body.

It was odd, for him to have conscious control of his body in such a confused state, to open his eyes and find himself in a totally different location from the one he left. "Are you alright, sir?" a paramedic questioned with his face hovering close to Jonathan's.

"Uh, yes. Fine. My arm hurts, is all," he stammered. **You didn't tell me they would ask me questions. I don't know what to say, Scarecrow.**

"Who are you talking to?" Now the paramedic leaned away, his face concerned.

_I told you not to mention me, you idiot! Why did you talk out loud? I'm in your head, fucking moron! Oh, we are so in for it now. They're going to ask questions. Give you pills. Arkham, Jonathan. They'll put us in Arkham. You know, basement cells, no blankets, filthy beds, terrible food, insane inmates? Arkham? You are a fucking idiot. I can't believe you._

"No, no, no, don't be mad, please - I didn't mean to - you don't need to do that - oh, God, no, not the -" His words degraded into loud wordless screeches, and he instantly curled into a ball.

"Sir? Sir, what's wrong? Sir?" The paramedic tried to shake him, stretch him out, to no avail. Jonathan rocked back and forth, screaming all the while. Scarecrow had brought the pain back, as terrible as it had been at its peak earlier, despite his promises not to hurt him again. "We need help out here!"

_Jonathan, shut your mouth. You brought this on yourself._ And it grew more painful. He screamed, as if someone was ripping his spine out through his esophagus, and it grew ever more painful.

"His heartbeat's through the roof and I can't even get a read on his blood pressure. We need a tranq, fast! He's gonna burst a blood vessel!" Everyone around him was shouting, just adding to the pain.

"You promised! You promised you wouldn't do it again! You said I wasn't bad any more!" he screeched, pressing his face into the pillow beneath his head - as if that could comfort him at this point.

_Just shut your damn mouth! You're making it worse! Shut your trap!_ He'd never heard Scarecrow so angry before that he could remember.

"Stop hurting me, please! I'll be good, I'll be quiet, just stop hurting me!" As the pain subsided, and Scarecrow fell silent, he felt a needle stab into his arm, pushing him into a new type of darkness. This darkness was empty, calm, quiet. Like sleep. He smiled as awareness faded.

*

"He should be waking up in a few minutes. No idea what happened to the guy. He had those cuts on his arms, said they were from some sort of guerilla rack in his basement, and then he was quiet for a little while, opened his eyes and started talking to himself. Mentioned some 'Scarecrow' thing. And then he started screaming bloody murder. We had to knock him flat out so he wouldn't kill himself panicking. Definitely the weirdest pickup of my life. There a psych coming in soon?" It was the same paramedic as before, or at least, it was someone with the same voice.

Jonathan attempted to stir, but a tiny fragment of the pain returned - a warning - so he stayed still, eyes closed. "Is this Jonathan Crane? What happened to the poor man? Why is he so flushed?" That was a woman, and a young one, at that. "I was going to apply at Arkham just to work with him."

_Now, Jonathan, I'm going to do the talking, and I want you to listen and say absolutely nothing. I mean it - not a word. You keep your mouth shut or I will slice you to pieces, do you understand me?_

**But - Scarecrow, you told me you weren't going to hurt me any more.**

_Fucking - Jonathan, what did I __**just**__ tell you not to do?_

"Jonathan? Who are you talking to?" The woman's voice was closer to him, and he finally opened his eyes to see what was going on.

She was a beautiful woman, with long and curly blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a distinct air of femininity about her. When he didn't respond after a second, Scarecrow started the pain - low, at first, just an ache.

"No one. No one," he answered quickly, before he could be hurt any more. "What am I doing here?"

"Well, I could ask you the same question. We stitched up your arm, but I'm worried about you, Jonathan. What made you start screaming in the ambulance? And who is Scarecrow?" Her voice was soft, and she leaned in ever closer to where Jonathan lay on the surprisingly comfortable bed.

_Tell her nothing. And this time, you really need to tell her absolutely nothing._

"No one. I wasn't talking to anyone. I'm fine. Can I go home now, please?" he whispered. It took a massive effort not to just start sobbing - her face was just that inviting, and it made him feel safe just to look at this mysterious woman.

"We can't let you go home until we figure out what happened, otherwise it might happen again. I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to answer honestly, alright, Jonathan?" He nodded, very slowly. "Now, do you ever hear voices talking to you? In your head?"

_Say no say no say no say no say NO!_

"Uh … no. I don't," he replied.

"Are you sure? No one other than you is talking to me right now? You can tell me. I won't be mad at you."

"Yes, you will, he said he wouldn't - no, no, don't, please - stop it, stop it!" The pain was coming back, although it was at a reduced level for the moment.

"What's wrong? Is someone hurting you? Nurse, we need pain medication. Something strong, fast-acting. Hurry!" the doctor called into the hall, before turning back and laying a hand on Jonathan's arm. "You're alright. Everything's going to be okay. What is 'he' doing to you?" Her touch against his skin was surprisingly soothing, and it gave him something else to focus on, at least.

_Jonathan, I'm going to stop hurting you and you're going to stay completely silent. Don't answer any more questions._

"He makes it hurt when I don't listen to him. He doesn't want me to -" he paused to moan - "talk to you any more. Please make it stop, don't - no, no, no, you can't do that - you can't - I know, I know, I know! She's not - she's not hurting me! I don't like you any more! Just leave me alone! Please! Oh, God, no, no, no, you have to stop, it hurts so much, stop - no, no more! Please! Oh _God, _Scarecrow, just _stop please stop now - don't - no more - oh __**God**_!" He was thrashing on the bed, although it felt more like a fire pit, and wailing like a banshee between panicked pleas.

While he screamed, Scarecrow was continually upping the pain from irritating to agonizing to something past human comprehension, a sort of pain that had no words attached to it, only screeches and moans of death. _Shut up, shut up, shut up. This is your fault. If it weren't for your big mouth, I wouldn't be doing this to you. Close your mouth and take your punishment. You can handle it. When they leave, I'll stop._

"Can you stay still for one second, Jonathan? I have medicine for you that will stop the pain, alright?" the doctor asked him quietly, and, sobbing, Jonathan obeyed. A syringe entered his vein and brought with it almost instant relief. It seemed that as the medication pulsed through his body, it washed away the pain Scarecrow continued to produce.

"Do you feel better now? Can you talk to me? He's not hurting you any more, is he, Jonathan?" she asked softly.

After a moment's consideration, he nodded. "He's trying to, but it's not working any more. It doesn't hurt any more. But he's really mad at you. He wants to hurt me a lot. Can I go to sleep now? That stuff made me sleepy," he mumbled, lips loose and slack with exhaustion.

"I'm going to ask you a few more questions before you go to sleep. Is that alright? Do you want to talk to me?" the doctor asked quietly. He nodded wearily.

"So, who is 'he'? Is he 'Scarecrow'?" Her eyebrows furrowed as she investigated Jonathan, half-asleep on his bed. At that point, he was well past keeping secrets.

_Jonathan, you know what I'm going to do to you, right? I'm going to find a way to cut you out of your head entirely. I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch._

"He's … I dunno. He's in my head and he talks to me. But he is me, sometimes. He can take over my body sometimes. And he's not very nice. He says he's gonna kill me. You won't let him, will you? You'll keep Scarecrow from hurting Jonathan, right? And you won't hurt me. You have to promise that you won't hurt me, okay? He said that he wouldn't and then he did. A lot. Jonathan doesn't like to be hurt. And then I thought I was bad so I wanted to make myself good so he wouldn't hurt me again, and I punished myself because it hurt less for me to do it, and then I did it again, and he said that I was good. But I'm not good, so he hurts me. And you're going to hurt me too, aren't you? Because I'm bad.

"It doesn't have to hurt too much, does it? I don't like it when it hurts," he finished, curling up into a loose ball. Like the Boy Scouts always preached - or so he thought they did - he needed to be prepared. Or was that the evil lions? He didn't really know what evil lions he was thinking about, but apparently, they believed in preparedness.

For several moments, the doctor simply looked at him, seeming appalled at what he said. "Jonathan, I'm not going to hurt you. Why would you think that? You're not bad. Did … did Scarecrow tell you that you were bad? It's not true. I'm sure you're not bad. We'll get rid of Scarecrow. Does that sound good? You won't have to be hurt by him any more -"

_Jonathan, if you do not get rid of this bitch woman…_

"Don't! No, don't get rid of him! P-p-p-please! I'll be good, I promise, just don't…" He trailed off, unsure of how else to defend his point, if he'd defended it at all up to that point. "No, no, no, Scarecrow, don't -"

_She's not leaving yet and they didn't get you enough meds to stop the worst of what I can do to you._

"Jonathan? Jonathan? Answer me, Jonathan. Are you alright?" the doctor asked, turning out to the hallway and whispering something incomprehensible to someone outside the room while Jonathan thrashed and bit his lips together to keep from begging for help.

_Good job. At least you're not talking now. I don't have to hurt you when you do what I want, now, do I? Good Jonathan. You're being good._ Invisible and immaterial hands ran through his hair and patted the top of his head.

"Alright, Jonathan, we're going to give you medicine that will make Scarecrow quiet down for a little. Stay still for a second, okay? Give me that syringe, Will." A needle suddenly slid into his arm, rather unexpectedly - as he'd been too busy listening to Scarecrow's praise of him and his silence.

Suddenly, there was silence. "Where's Scarecrow? Where did he go? Why did you take him away?" A classical German song came to mind, and he started singing it under his breath, hoping it would bring Scarecrow back.

_Die nachtigall, sie war entfenrt, der Frühling lockt sie wieder;_

_Was neues hat sie nicht gelernt,_

_Singt alte liebe Lieder._

"Jonathan, Scarecrow was hurting you. He made you hurt yourself, do you understand that? He can't come back until we figure out what he was doing to you," the doctor explained.

"No! He said I was being good and you took it away! I don't want to be here any more, I want to go home!" Jonathan shouted.

And he bolted out of the room.


End file.
